THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


iH 


CAST  ADRIFT. 
(FRONTISPIECE) 


See  page  52. 


CAST    ADRIFT. 


T.    S.    ARTHUR, 

'TBBBB  TBAM  IM  A  UAH-TRAP,"  "OBAI 

BZXMBOMf,"    BTC.,    BTC. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY 
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LIBRARY 

I/DIVERSITY  OF 
PAVIi 


OOPTBMHT,  1172,  BY    J.  M.  8TODDAJLT  A 


TO  THE  READER. 


Is  this  romance  of  real  life,  in  which  the  truth  ia 
btranger  than  the  fiction,  I  have  lifted  only  in  part 
the  veil  that  hides  the  victims  of  intemperance  and 
othei  terrible  vices — after  they  have  fallen  to  the 
lower  deeps  of  degradation  to  be  found  in  our  large 
cities,  where  the  vile  and  degraded  herd  together  more 
like  wild  beasts  than  men  and  women — and  told  the 
story  of  sorrow,  suffering,  crime  and  debasement  aa 
they  really  exist  in  Christian  America  with  all  the 
earnestness  and  power  that  in  me  lies. 

Strange  and  sad  and  terrible  as  are  some  of  the 
scenes  from  which  I  have  drawn  this  veil,  I  have  not 
told  the  half  of  what  exists.  My  book,  apart  from 
the  thread  of  fiction  that  runs  through  its  pages,  is 
but  a  series  of  photographs  from  real  life,  and  is  less 
a  work  of  the  imagination  than  a  record  of  facts. 

If  it  stirs  the  hearts  of  American  readers  pro 
foundly,  and  so  awakens  the  people  to  a  sense  of 


8  TO  THE  READER. 

their  duty;  if  it  helps  to  inaugurate  more  earnest 
and  radical  modes  of  reform  for  a  state  of  society 
of  which  a  distinguished  author  has  said,  "  There  is 
not  a  country  throughout  the  earth  on  which  it  would 
not  bring  a  curse ;  there  is  no  religion  upon  the  earth 
that  it  would  not  deny ;  there  is  no  people  upon  the 
earth  it  would  not  put  to  shame ;" — then  will  not  my 
work  bo  in  vain. 

Sitting  in  our  comfortable  homes  with  well-fed^ 
well-clothed  and  happy-hearted  children  about  us— 
children  who  have  our  tenderest  care,  whose  cry  of 
pain  from  a  pin-prick  or  a  fall  on  the  carpeted  floor 
hurts  us  like  a  blow — how  few  of  us  know  or  care 
anything  about  the  homes  in  which  some  other  chil 
dren  dwell,  or  of  the  hard  and  cruel  battle  for  life 
they  are  doomed  to  fight  from  the  very  beginning ! 

To  get  out  from  these  comfortable  homes  and  from 
the  midst  of  tenderly  cared-for  little  ones,  and  stand 
face  to  face  with  squalor  and  hunger,  with  suffer 
ing,  debasement  and  crime,  to  look  upon  the  starved 
faces  of  children  and  hear  their  helpless  cries,  is  what 
scarcely  one  in  a  thousand  will  do.  It  is  too  much 
for  our  sensibilities.  And  so  we  stand  aloof,  and  the 
Borrow  and  suifering,  the  debasement,  the  wrong  and 
the  crime,  go  on,  and  because  we  heed  it  not  W6 
vainly  imagine  that  no  responsibility  lies  at  our 


TO   THE  READER.  9 

door ;  and  yet  there  is  no  man  or  woman  who  is  not, 
according  to  the  measure  of  his  or  her  influence, 
responsible  for  the  human  debasement  and  suffering 
j  have  portrayed. 

The  task  I  set  for  myself  has  not  been  a  pleasant 
one.  It  has  hurt  my  sensibilities  and  sickened  my 
heart  many  times  as  I  stood  face  to  face  with  the 
sad  and  awful  degradation  that  exists  in  certain 
regions  of  our  larger  cities ;  and  now  that  my  work 
is  done.  I  take  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  The  result 
is  in  your  hands,  good  citizen,  Christian  reader,  earn 
est  philanthropist !  If  it  stirs  your  heart  in  the  read 
ing  as  it  stirred  mine  in  the  writing,  it  will  not  die 

fruitless. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGl 

The  unwebome  babe — The  defrauded  young  mother — The 
struggle  bet  ween  life  and  death — "Your  baby  is  in  heaven" 
— A  brief  retrospect — A  marriage  for  social  position — An 
ambitious  wife  and  a  disappointed  husband — The  young 
daughter — The  matrimonial  market — The  Circassian  slaves 
of  modern  society — The  highest  bidder — Disappearance — 
The  old  sad  story  Secret  marriage — The  letters — Disap 
pointed  ambition — Interview  between  the  parents — The 
mother's  purpose—"  Baffled,  but  not  defeated"— The  father's 
surprise— The  returned  daughter — Forgiven  —  "I  am  not 
going  away  again,  father  dear" — Insecurity  and  distrust....  21 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  hatred  of  a  bad  woman — Mrs.  Dinneford's  plans  for  the 
destruction  of  Granger — Starting  in  business — Plots  of  Mrs. 
Dinneford  and  Freeling — The  discounted  notes — The  trap 
— Granger's  suspicions  aroused — Forgery — Mrs.  Dinneford 
relentless — The  arrest — Fresh  evidence  of  crime  upon 
Granger's  person — The  shock  to  Edith — "That  night  her 

baby  was  born" 33 

11 


12  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  III. 

PAM 

r<  It  is  a  splendid  boy  " — A  convenient,  non-interfering  family 
doctor — Cast  adrift — Into  the  world  in  a  basket,  unnamed 
and  disowned — EJith's  second  struggle  back  to  life — Her 
mind  a  blank— Granger  convicted  of  forgery — Seeks  to 
gain  knowledge  of  his  child — The  doctor's  evasion  and 
ignorance — An  insane  asylum  instead  of  State's  prison — 
Edith's  slow  return  to  intelligence— "  There's  something 
1  can't  understand,  mother" — "Where  is  my  baby?" — 
"What  of  George?" — No  longer  a  child,  but  a  broken 
hearted  woman — The  divorce 49 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Sympathy  between  father  and  daughter — Interest  in  public 
charities — A  dreadful  sight — A  sick  babe  in  the  arms  of  a 
half-drunken  woman — "  Is  there  no  law  to  meet  such  cases  ?" 
— "  The  poor  baby  has  no  vote" — Edith  seeks  for  the  grave 
of  her  child,  but  cannot  find  it — She  questions  her  mother, 
who  baffles  her  curiosity — Mrs.  Bray's  visit — Interview  be 
tween  Mrs.  Dinneford  and  Mrs.  Bray — "The  baby  isn't 
living?" — "Yes  ;  I  saw  it  day  before  yesterday  in  the  arms 
of  a  beggar-woman" — Edith's  suspicions  aroused — Deter 
mined  to  discover  the  fate  of  her  child — Visits  the  doctor — 
"Your  baby  is  in  heaven" — "  Would  to  God  it  were  so,  for 
\  saw  a  baby  in  hell  not  long  ago !" 51 

CHAPTER  V. 

ta/8.  Dinneford  visits  Mrs.  Bray — "  The  woman  to  whom  you 
gave  that  baby  was  here  yesterday" — The  woman  must  be 
put  out  of  the  way — Exit  Mrs.  Dinneford,  enter  Pinky 


CONTENTS.  13 

I'AOA 

Swett — "  You  know  your  fate — New  Orleans  and  the  yellow 
fever"—"  All  I  want  of  you  is  to  keep  track  of  the  baby"— 
Division  of  the  spoils — Lucky  dreams — Consultation  of  the 
dream-book  for  lucky  figures — Sam  McFaddon  and  his 
backer,  who  "  drives  in  the  Park  and  wears  a  two  thousand 
dollar  diamond  pin" — The  fate  of  a  baby  begged  with — 
The  baby  must  not  die — The  lottery-policies 71 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Rottenness  at  the  heart  of  a  great  city— Pinky  Swett's  at 
tempted  rescue  of  a  child  from  cruel  beating — The  fight — 
Pink/s  arrest — Appearance  of  the  "queen" — Pinky's  re 
lease  at  her  command — The  queen's  home — The  screams  of 
children  being  beaten — The  rescue  of  "  Flanagan's  Nell" — 
Death  the  great  rescuer — "  They  don't  look  after  things  in 
here  as  they  do  outside — Everybody's  got  the  screws  on,  and 
things  must  break  sometimes,  but  it  isn't  called  murder — 
The  coroner  understands  it  all" S4 

CHAPTER  VII. 

<*inky  Swett  at  the  mercy  of  the  crowd  in  the  street — Taken 
to  the  nearest  station-house — Mrs.  Dinneford  visits  Mrs. 
Bray  again — Fresh  alarms — "  She's  got  you  in  her  power" 
— "  Money  is  of  no  account" — The  knock  at  the  door — Mrs. 
Dinneford  in  hiding — The  visitor  gone — Mrs.  Bray  reports 
the  woman  insatiable  in  her  demands — Must  have  two  hun 
dred  dollars  by  sundown— No  way  of  escape  except  through 
police  interference—"  People  who  deal  with  the  devil  gen 
erally  have  the  devil  to  pay" — Suspicion — A  mistake- 
Sound  of  feet  upon  the  stairs— Mrs.  Dinneford  again  in  hid- 
Ing— Enter  Pinky  Swett— Pinky  disposed  of— Mrs.  Dinne 
2 


14  CONTENTS. 

tun 

ford  again   released — Mrs.  Bray's  strategy — "Let   us  be 

friends  still,  Mrs.  Bray" — Mrs.  Dinneford's  deprecation  and 
humiliation — Mrs.  Bray's  triumph 101 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Mrs.  Bray  receives  a  package  containing  two  hundred  dollars — 
"  Poor  baby  I  I  must  see  better  to  its  comfort" — Pinky  meets 
a  young  girl  fp  >m  the  country — The  "  Ladies'  Restaurant" — 
Fried  oysters  and  sangaree — The  "bindery"  girl — "My 
head  feels  strangely" — Through  the  back  alley — The  ten- 
cent  lodging  house — Robbery — A  second  robbery — A  v«il 
drawn — A  wild  prolonged  cry  of  a  woman — The  policeman 
listens  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  passes  on — Foul  play-  • 
"  In  all  our  large  cities  are  savages  more  cruel  and  brutal  in 
their  instincts  than  the  Comanches" — Who  is  responsible  ?.  117 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Valuation  of  the  spoils — The  receiver — The  "  policy-shop" 
and  its  customers — A  victim  of  the  lottery  mania 134 

CHAPTER  X. 

Policy-drunkards" — A  newly-appointed  policeman's  blunder 
— The  end  of  a  "  policy-drunkard" — Pinky  and  her  friend 
in  consultation  over  "  a  cast-off  baby  in  Dirty  alley" — "  If 
you  can't  get  hush-money  out  of  its  mother,  you  can  bleed 
Fanny  Bray" — The  way  to  starve  a  baby — Pinky  moves 
her  quarters  without  the  use  of  "a  dozen  furniture  cars" — A 
baby's  home — The  baby's  night  nurse — The  baby's  supper 
— The  baby's  bed — How  the  baby's  money  is  spent — Where 
the  baby's  nurse  passes  the  night — The  baby's  disappear 
ance ,.  J4I 


CONTENTS.  II 

CHAPTER  XI. 

MM 

Reserve  between  mother  and  daughter — Mrs.  Dinneford  dis 
approves  of  Edith's  charitable  visits — Mrs.  Dinneford  meets 
Freeling  by  appointment  at  a  hotel — "  There's  trouble  brew 
ing" — "  A  letter  from  George  Granger" — Accused  of  con 
spiracy — Possibility  of  Granger's  pardon  by  the  governor 
— An  ugly  business — In  great  peril — Freeling's  threats  of 
exposure — A  hint  of  an  alternative 161 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Mr.  Freeling  fails  to  appear  at  his  place  of  business — Exami 
nation  of  his  bank  accounts — It  is  discovered  that  he  has 
borrowed  largely  of  his  friends — Mrs.  Dinneford  has  sup 
plied  him  $20,000  from  her  private  purse — Mrs.  Dinneford 
falls  sick,  and  temporarily  loses  her  reason — "  I  told  you 
her  name  was  Gray — Gray,  not  Bray" — Half  disclosures — 
Recovery — Mother  and  daughter  mutually  suspicious — The 
visitor — Mrs.  Dinneford  equal  to  the  emergency — Edith 
thrown  off  the  track 173 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Edith  is  satisfied  that  her  babe  is  alive — She  has  a  desire  to 
teach  the  children  of  the  poor — "My  baby  may  become 
like  one  of  these  " — She  hears  of  a  baby  which  has  been 
stolen — Resolves  to  go  and  see  it,  and  to  apply  to  Mr. 
Paulding  of  the  Briar  street  mission  for  assistance  in  her 
attempt — Mr.  Paulding  persuades  her  that  it  is  best  not  to 
gee  the  child,  and  promises  that  he  himself  will  look  after  it 
— Returns  home — Her  father  remonstrates  with  her,  finally 
promises  to  help  her 183 


16  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

RMV 
VIr.  Dinneford  sets  out  for  the  mission-house — An  incident 

on  the  way — Encounters  Mr.  Paulding — Mr.  Paulding 
makes  his  report — "  The  vicious  mark  their  offspring  with 
unmistakable  signs  of  moral  depravity ;  this  baby  has  signs 
of  a  better  origin  " — A  profitable  conversation — "  I  think 
you  had  better  act  promptly" 194 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Mr.  Dinneford  with  a  policeman  goes  in  quest  of  the  baby — 
The  baby  is  gone — Inquiries — Mr.  Dinneford  resolves  to 
persevere  —  Cause  of  the  baby's  disappearance  —  Pinky 
Swett's  curiosity — Change  of  baby's  nurse — Baby's  im 
proved  condition — Baby's  first  experience  of  motherly 
tenderness — Baby's  first  smile — "Such  beautiful  eyes" — 
Pinky  Swett  visits  the  St.  John  mission-school — Edith  is 
not  there 208 

CHAPTER  XVL 

Mr.  Dinneford's  return,  and  Edith's  disappointment — "It  is 
somebody's  baby,  and  it  may  be  mine " — An  unsuspected 
listener — Mrs.  Dinneford  acts  promptly — Conference  be 
tween  Mrs.  Dinneford  and  Mrs.  Hoyt,  alias  Bray — The 
child  must  be  got  out  of  the  way — "  If  it  will  not  starve, 
it  must  drown " — Mrs.  Dinneford  sees  an  acquaintance  as 
she  leaves  Mrs.  Hoyt's,  and  endeavors  to  escape  his  obser 
vation — A  new  danger  and  disgrace  awaiting  her 2IS 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Mental  conditions  of  mother  and  daughter — Mr.  Dinneford 
aroused  to  a  sense  of  his  moral  responsibilities — The  hea- 


CONTENTS.  17 

PAttl 

then  in  our  midst — The  united  evil  of  policy- lotteries  and 
wmsky-shops— The  education  of  the  policy-shops 227 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

News  item :  "  A  child  drowned  " — Another  news  item :  Pinky 
Swett  sentenced  to  prison  for  robbery — Baby's  improved 
condition — Mrs.  Burke's  efforts  to  retain  the  baby  after 
Pinky  Swett's  imprisonment — Baby  Andy's  rough  life  in 
the  street — Mrs.  Burke's  death— Cast  upon  the  world — 
Andy's  adventures — He  finds  a  home  and  a  friend 234 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Mr.  Dinneford  visits  the  mission  school — A  comparison  of  the 
present  with  the  past — The  first  mission-school — Reminis 
cences  of  the  school  in  its  early  days — The  zealous  scholar 
— Good  effects  of  the  mission — "Get  the  burning  brands 
apart,  or  interpose  incombustible  things  between  them  " — 
An  illustration — "Let  in  light,  and  the  darkness  flees" 24* 

CHAPTER  XX. 

14  The  man  avroke  and  felt  the  child  against  his  bosom,  soft 
and  warm" — Led  by  a  little  child — "  God  being  my  helper, 
I  will  be  a  man  again  " — A  new  life — Meeting  of  an  old 
friend — A  friend  in  need — Food,  clothes,  work — A  new 
home — God's  strength  our  only  safety 264 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Ultimate  relations  of  physical  and  moral  purity — Blind  Jake 

-  -The  harvest  of  the  thieves  and  beggars—  Imonsiderate 

charity — Beggary  a  vice — "  The  deserving  poor  are  never 

com  non  beggars" — "  To  help  the  evil  is  to  hurt  the  good" 

2*  B 


18  CONTENTS. 

»&• 

— The  malignant  ulcer  in  the  body  politic  of  our  city — The 

breeding-places  of  epidemics  and  malignant  diseases — 
Little  Italian  street  musicians— The  existence  of  slavery 
in  our  midst — Facts  in  regard  to  it 28(5 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Edith's  continued  interest  in  the  children  of  the  poor — Christ 
mas  dinner  at  the  mission-house — Edith  perceives  Andy, 
and  feels  a  strange  attraction  toward  him — Andy's  disap 
pearance  after  dinner — Pinky  Swett  has  been  seen  dragging 
him  away — Lost  sight  of 293 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Christmas  dinner  at  Mr.  Dinneford's — The  dropped  letter — 
It  is  missed — A  scene  of  wild  excitement — Mrs.  Din 
neford's  sudden  death — Edith  reads  the  letter — A  revela 
tion—"  Innocent !"— Edith  is  called  to  her  mother—"  Dead, 
and  better  so!" — Granger's  innocence  established — An 
agony  of  affection — No  longer  Granger's  wife 30? 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Edith's  sickness— Meeting  of  Mrs.  Bray  and  Pinky  Swett— A 
trial  of  sharpness,  in  which  neither  gains  the  advantage — 
Mr.  Dinneford  receives  a  call  from  a  lady — The  lady,  who 
is  Mrs.  Bray,  offers  information — Mr.  Dinneford  surprises 
her  into  admitting  an  important  fact — Mrs.  Bray  offers  to 
produce  the  child  for  a  price — Mr.  Dinneford  consents  to 
pay  the  price  on  certain  stipulations — Mrs.  Bray  departs, 
premising  to  co*  >e  again 3H 


CONTENTS.  ! 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

MM 

Granger's  pardon  procured — How  he  receives  his  pardon — 
Mrs.  Bray  tries  to  trace  Pinky  home — Loses  sight  of  her  in 
the  street — Mrs.  Bray  interviews  a  shop-woman — Pinky's 
destination — The  child  is  gone 324 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Mrs.  Bray  does  not  call  on  Mr.  Dinneford,  as  she  promised — 
Peril  to  Andrew  Hall  through  loss  of  the  child — Help — 
Edith  longs  to  see  or  write  to  Granger,  but  does  not — 
Edith  encounters  Mrs.  Bray  in  the  street — "  Where  is  my 
baby?" — Disappointment — How  to  identify  the  child  if 
found 334 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

No  trace  of  Andy — Account  of  Andy's  abduction — Andy'a 
prison — An  outlook  from  prison — A  loose  nail— The  escape 
—The  sprained  ankle— The  accident 341 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

bdith's  visit  to  the  children's  hospital—"  Oh,  my  baby  !  thank 
God  !  my  baby  1"— The  identification 364 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

It eeting  of  Mr.  Dinneford  and  George  Granger — "  Wo  want 
you  to  help  us  find  your  child"—"  Edith's  heart  is  calling 
out  for  you" — The  meeting — The  marriage  benediction 86 J 


CAST   ADRIFT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  BABY  had  come,  but  he  was  sot  welcome.    Could 
anything  be  sadder  ? 

The  young  mother  lay  with  her  white  face  to  the  wall, 
rtill  as  death.  A  woman  opened  the  chamber  door  noise 
lessly  and  came  in,  the  faint  rustle  of  her  garments  dis 
turbing  the  quiet  air. 

A  quick,  eager  turning  of  the  head,  a  look  half  anx 
ious,  half  fearful,  and  then  the  almost  breathless  question, 
"  Where  is  my  baby  ?" 

"Never  mind  about  the  baby,"  was  answered,  almost 
coldly;  "he's  well  enough.  I'm  more  concerned  about 
you." 

"  Have  you  sent  word  to  George  ?" 
"  George  can't  see  you.    I've  said  that  before." 
"  Oh,  mother !     I  must  see  my  husband." 
"  Husband !"     The  tone  of  bitter  contempt  with  which 
the  word  was  uttered  struck  the  daughter  like  a  blow. 
She  had  partly  risen  in  her  excitement,  but  now  fell  back 
with  a  low  moan,  shutting  her  eyes  and  turning  her  face 

21 


22  CAST  ADRIFT. 

away.  Even  ae  she  did  so,  A  young  man  stepped  back  from 
the  door  of  the  elegant  house  in  which  she  lay  with  a 
baffled,  disappointed  air.  He  looked  pale  and  wretched. 

"  Edith  I"  Two  hours  afterward  the  doctor  stood  over 
the  young  mother,  and  called  her  name.  She  did  not 
move  nor  reply.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  cheek,  and 
almost  started,  then  bent  down  and  looked  at  her  in 
tently  for  a  moment  or  two.  She  had  fever.  A  serious 
expression  came  into  his  face,  and  there  was  cause. 

The  sweet  rest  and  heavenly  joy  of  maternity  had  been 
denied  to  his  young  patient.  The  new-born  babe  had  not 
been  suffered  to  lie  even  for  one  blissful  moment  on  her 
bosom.  Hard-hearted  family  pride  and  cruel  worldliness 
had  robbed  her  of  the  delight  with  which  God  ever  seeks 
to  dower  young  motherhood,  anil  now  the  overtaxed  body 
and  brain  had  given  way. 

For  many  weeks  the  frail  young  creature  struggled 
with  delirium — struggled  and  overcame. 

"  Where  is  my  baby  ?" 

The  first  thought  of  returning  consciousness  was  of  her 
bah-. 

A  woman  who  sat  in  a  distant  part  of  the  chamber 
started  up  and  crossed  to  the  bed.  She  was  past  middle 
life,  of  medium  stature,  with  small,  clearly  cut  features 
and  cold  blue  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  full,  but  very  firm. 
Self-poise  was  visible  even  in  her  surprised  movements. 
She  bent  over  the  bed  and  looked  into  Edith's  wistful 
eyes. 

"Where  is  my  baby,  mother?"  Mrs.  Dinneford  put 
her  fingers  lightly  on  Edith's  lips. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  23 

"  You  must  be  very  quiet,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  even  voice, 
•The  doctor  forbids  all  excitement.  You  have  been 
extremely  ill." 

"  Can't  I  see  my  baby,  mother  ?  It  won't  hurt  me  to 
see  my  baby." 

"  Not  now.     The  doctor — " 

Edith  half  arose  in  bed,  a  look  of  doubt  and  fear  com 
ing  into  her  face. 

"  I  want  my  baby,  mother,"  she  said,  interrupting  her. 

A  hard,  resolute  expression  came  into  the  cold  blue 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Dinneford.  She  put  her  hand  firmly  against 
Edith  and  pressed  her  back  upon  the  pillow. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill  for  nearly  two  months,"  she 
eaid,  softening  her  voice.  "No  one  thought  you  could 
live.  Thank  God !  the  crisis  is  over,  but  not  the  danger." 

"  Two  months !     Oh,  mother !" 

The  slight  flush  that  had  come  into  Edith's  wan  face 
faded  out,  and  the  pallor  it  had  hidden  for  a  few  momenta 
became  deeper.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  lay  very  still, 
but  it  was  plain  from  the  expression  of  her  face  that 
thought  was  busy. 

"Not  two  whole  months,  mother?"  she  said,  at  length, 
in  doubtful  tones.  "  Oh  no !  it  cannot  be." 

"  It  is  just  as  I  have  said,  Edith ;  and  now,  my  dear 
child,  as  you  value  your  life,  keep  quiet ;  all  excitement 
is  dangerous." 

But  repression  was  impossible.  To  Edith's  conscious 
ness  there  was  no  lapse  of  time.  It  seemed  scarcely  an 
hour  since  the  birth  of  her  baby  and  its  removal  from 
her  sight.  The  inflowing  tide  of  mother-love,  the  preg- 


24  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Bure  and  yearning  sweetness  of  which  she  had  begun  to 
feel  when  she  first  called  for  the  baby  they  had  not  per 
mitted  to  rest,  even  for  an  instant,  on  her  bosom,  was  no* 
flooding  her  heart.  Two  months !  If  that  were  so,  what 
of  the  baby  ?  To  be  submissive  was  impossible. 

Starting  up  half  wildly,  a  vague  terror  in  her  face,  shfj 
cried,  piteously, 

"  Oh,  mother,  bring  me  my  baby.  I  shall  die  if  you 
do  not!" 

"  Your  baby  is  in  heaven,"  &aid  Mrs.  Dinneford,  soften 
ing  her  voice  to  a  tone  of  tender  regret. 

Edith  caught  her  breath,  grew  very  white,  and  then, 
with  a  low,  wailing  cry  that  sent  a  shiver  through  Mrs. 
Dinneford's  heart,  fell  back,  to  all  appearance  dead. 

The  mother  did  not  call  for  help,  but  sat  by  the  bed 
side  of  her  daughter,  and  waited  for  the  issue  of  this  new 
struggle  between  life  and  death.  There  was  no  visible 
excitement,  but  her  mouth  was  closely  set  and  her  cold 
blue  eyes  fixed  in  a  kind  of  vacant  stare. 

Edith  was  Mrs.  Dinneford's  only  child,  and  she  had 
loved  her  with  the  strong,  selfish  love  of  a  worldly  and 
ambitious  woman.  In  her  own  marriage  she  had  not 
consulted  her  heart.  Mr.  Dinneford's  social  position  and 
wealth  were  to  her  far  more  than  his  personal  endow 
ments.  She  would  have  rejected  him  without  a  quicker 
pulse-beat  if  these  had  been  all  he  had  to  offer.  He 
was  disappointed,  she  was  not.  Strong,  self-asserting, 
yet  politic,  Mrs.  Dinneford  managed  her  good  husband 
about  as  she  pleased  in  all  external  matters,  and  left  him 
to  the  free  enjoyment  of  his  personal  tastes,  preferences 


CAST  ADRIFT.  25 

and  friendships.  The  house  they  lived  in,  the  furniture 
it  contained,  the  style  and  equipage  assumed  by  the 
family,  were  all  of  her  choice,  Mr.  Dinneford  giving 
merely  a  half-constrained  or  half-indifferent  consent.  He 
had  learned,  by  painful  and  sometimes  humiliating  expe 
rience,  that  any  contest  with  Mrs.  Helen  Dinneford  upon 
which  he  might  enter  was  sure  to  end  in  his  defeat. 

He  was  a  man  of  fine  moral  and  intellectual  qualities. 
His  wealth  gave  him  leisure,  and  his  tastes,  feelings  and 
habits  of  thought  drew  him  into  the  society  of  some  of 
the  best  men  in  the  city  where  he  lived — best  in  the  true 
meaning  of  that  word.  In  all  enlightened  social  reform 
movements  you  would  be  sure  of  finding  Mr.  Howard 
Dinneford.  He  was  an  active  and  efficient  member  in 
many  boards  of  public  charity,  and  highly  esteemed  in 
them  all  for  his  enlightened  philanthropy  and  sound 
judgment.  Everywhere  but  at  home  he  was  strong  and 
influential ;  there  he  was  weak,  submissive  and  of  little 
account.  He  had  long  ago  accepted  the  situation, 
making  a  virtue  of  necessity.  A  different  man — one  of 
stronger  will  and  a  more  imperious  spirit — would  have 
held  his  own,  even  though  it  wrought  bitterness  and 
sorrow.  But  Mr.  Dinneford's  aversion  to  strife,  and 
gentleness  toward  every  one,  held  him  away  from  con 
flict,  and  so  his  home  was  at  least  tranquil. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  had  her  own  way,  and  so  long  as  her 
husband  made  no  strong  opposition  to  that  way  all  wai 
peaceful. 

For  Edith,  their  only  child,  who  was  more  like  he* 
than  her  ruother,  Mr.  Dinneford  had  the  tenderest 
3 


26  CAST  ADRIFT. 

regard  The  well-springs  of  love,  choked  up  so  soon  aftej 
his  marriage,  were  opened  freely  toward  his  daughter, 
and  he  lived  in  her  a  new,  sweet  and  satisfying  life.  The 
mother  was  often  jealous  of  her  husband's  demonstrative 
tenderness  for  Edith.  A  yearning  instinct  of  woman 
hood,  long  repressed  by  worldliness  and  a  mean  social 
ambition,  made  her  crave  at  times  the  love  she  had  cast 
away,  and  then  her  cup  of  life  was  very  bitter.  But  fear 
of  Mr.  Dinneford's  influence  over  Edith  was  stronger 
than  any  jealousy  of  his  love.  She  had  high  views  for 
her  daughter.  In  her  own  marriage  she  had  set  aside  all 
considerations  but  those  of  social  rank.  She  had  made 
it  a  stepping-stone  to  a  higher  ^place  in  society  than  the 
one  to  which  she  was  born.  Still,  above  them  stood  many 
millionnaire  families,  living  in  palace-homes,  and  through 
her  daughter  she  meant  to  rise  into  one  of  them.  It 
mattered  not  for  the  personal  quality  of  the  scion  of  the 
house ;  he  might  be  as  coarse  and  common  as  his  father 
before  him,  or  weak,  mean,  selfish,  and  debased  by  sensual 
indulgence.  This  was  of  little  account.  To  lift  Edith  to 
the  higher  social  level  was  the  all  in  all  of  Mrs.  Dinne 
ford's  ambition. 

But  Mr.  Dinneford  taught  Edith  a  nobler  life-lessou 
than  this,  gave  her  better  views  of  wedlock,  pictured  for 
her  loving  heart  the  bliss  of  a  true  marriage,  sighing 
often  as  he  did  so,  but  unconsciously,  at  the  lost  fruitiou 
i)f  his  own  sweet  hopes.  He  was  careful  to  do  this  only 
when  alone  with  Edith,  guarding  his  speech  when  Mrs. 
Dinneford  was  present.  He  had  faith  in  true  prim.-iptes, 
and  with  these  he  sought  to  guard  her  life.  He  kneti 


CAST  ADRIFT.  2^ 

tha  t  she  would  be  pushed  forward  into  society,  and  kne\f 
but  too  well  that  one  so  pure  and  lovely  in  mind  as  well 
as  person  would  become  a  centre  of  attraction,  and  that 
he,  standing  on  the  outside  as  it  were,  would  have  no 
power  to  save  her  frcm  the  saddest  of  all  fates  if  she 
were  passive  and  her  mother  resolute.  Her  safety  must 
lie  in  herself. 

Edith  was  brought  out  early.  Mrs.  Dinneford  could 
not  wait.  At  seventeen  she  was  thrust  into  society,  set 
up  for  sale  to  the  highest  bidder,  her  condition  nearer 
that  of  a  Circassian  than  a  Christian  maiden,  with  her 
mother  as  slave-dealer. 

So  it  was  and  so  it  is.  %You  may  see  the  thing  every 
day.  But  it  did  not  come  out  according  to  Mrs.  Dinne 
ford  's  programme.  There  was  a  highest  bidder;  but 
when  he  came  for  his  slave,  she  was  not  to  be  found. 

Well,  the  story  is  trite  and  brief— the  old  sad  story. 
Among  her  suitors  was  a  young  man  named  Granger, 
and  to  him  Edith  gave  her  heart.  But  the  mother 
rejected  him  with  anger  and  scorn.  He  was  not  rich, 
though  belonging  to  a  family  of  high  character,  and  so 
fell  far  below  her  requirements.  Under  a  pressure  that 
almost  drove  the  girl  to  despair,  she  gave  her  consent  to 
a  marriage  that  looked  more  terrible  than  death.  A 
month  before  the  time  fixed  for  its  consummation,  she 
barred  the  contract  by  a  secret  union  with  Granger. 

Edith  knew  her  mother's  character  too  well  to  hope 
for  any  reconciliation,  so  far  as  Mr.  Granger  was  con 
cerned.  Coming  in  as  he  had  done  between  her  and  the 
consummation  of  her  highest  ambition,  she  could  never 


28  CAST  ADRIFT. 

feel  toward  him  anything  but  the  most  bitter  hatred', 
and  so,  after  remaining  at  home  for  about  a  week  after 
her  secret  marriage,  she  wrote  this  brief  letter  to  hen 
mother  and  went  away : 

"MY  DEAR  MOTHER:  I  do  not  love  Spencer  Wray, 
and  would  rather  die  than  marry  him,  and  so  I  have 
made  the  marriage  to  which  my  heart  has  never  con 
sented,  an  impossibility.  You  have  left  me  no  other 
alternative  but  this.  I  am  the  wife  of  George  Granger, 
and  go  to  cast  my  lot  with  his. 

"  Your  loving  daughter, 

"  EDITH." 
To  her  father  she  wrote : 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  FATHER  :  If  I  bring  sorrow  to  you? 
good  and  loving  heart  by  what  I  have  done,  I  know  that 
it  will  be  tempered  with  joy  at  my  escape  from  a  union 
with  one  from  whom  my  soul  has  ever  turned  with  irre 
pressible  dinlike.  Oh,  my  father,  you  can  understand,  if 
mother  cannot,  into  what  a  desperate  strait  I  have  been 
brought.  I  am  a  deer  hunted  to  the  edge  of  a  dizzy 
chasm,  and  I  leap  for  life  over  the  dark  abyss,  praying 
for  strength  to  reach  the  farther  edge.  If  I  fail  in  the 
wild  effort,  I  can  only  meet  destruction ;  and  I  would 
rather  be  bruised  to  death  on  the  jagged  rocks  than  trust 
myself  to  the  hounds  and  hunters.  I  write  passionately — 
you  will  hardly  recognize  your  quiet  child ;  out  the 
repressed  instincts  of  my  nature  are  strong,  and  peril  and 
despair  have  broken  their  bonds.  I  did  not  consult  you 


CAST  ADRIFT.  29 

about  the  step  I  have  taken,  because  I  dared  not  trust 
you  with  my  secret.  You  would  have  tried  to  hold  me 
back  from  the  perilous  leap,  fondly  hoping  for  some 
other  way  of  escape.  I  had  resolved  on  putting  an 
impassable  gulf  between  me  and  danger,  if  I  died  in  the 
attempt.  I  have  taken  the  leap,  and  may  God  care  for 
me! 

"  I  have  laid  up  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  dearest  of 
fathers,  the  precious  life-truths  that  so  often  fell  from 
your  lips.  Not  a  word  that  you  ever  said  about  the 
sacredness  of  marriage  has  been  forgotten.  I  believe  with 
you  that  it  is  a  little  less  than  crime  to  marry  when  no 
love  exists — that  she  who  does  so,  sells  her  heart's  birth 
right  for  some  mess  of  pottage,  sinks  down  from  the  pure 
level  of  noble  womanhood,  and  traffics  away  her  person, 
is  henceforth  meaner  in  quality  if  not  really  vile. 

"  And  so,  my  father,  to  save  myself  from  such  a  depth 
of  degradation  and  misery,  I  take  my  destiny  into  my 
own  hands.  I  have  grown  very  strong  in  my  convictions 
and  purposes  in  the  last  four  weeks.  My  sight  has 
become  suddenly  clear.  I  am  older  by  many  years. 

"  As  for  George  Granger,  all  I  can  now  say  is  that  1 
love  him,  and  believe  him  to  be  worthy  of  my  love.  1 
am  willing  to  trust  him,  and  am  ready  to  share  his  lot, 
however  humble. 

"  StilJ  hold  me  in  your  heart,  my  precious  father,  as  J 
hold  yoji  In  mine.  EDITH." 

Mr.  DinL^ford   read   this   letter  twice.     It  took  him 
lome  time,  his  eyes  were  so  full  of  tears.     In  view  of  bei 
3* 


30 

approaching  marriage  with  Spencer  Wray,  his  heart  had 
t'elt  very  heavy.  It  was  something  lighter  now.  Young 
Granger  was  not  the  man  he  would  have  chosen  for 
Edith,  but  he  liked  him  far  better  than  he  did  the  other, 
and  felt  that  his  child  was  safe  now. 

He  went  to  his  wife's  room,  and  found  her  with  Edith's 
letter  crushed  in  her  hand.  She  was  sitting  motionless, 
her  face  pale  and  rigid,  her  eyes  fixed  and  stony  and  her 
lips  tight  against  her  teeth.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
his  presence  until  he  put  his  hand  upon  her,  which  he 
did  without  speaking.  At  this  she  started  up  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  kind  of  fierce  intentness. 

"Are  you  a  party  to  this  frightful  thing?"  she 
demanded. 

Mr.  Dinneford  weakly  handed  her  the  letter  he  had 
received  from  Edith.  She  read  it  through  in  half  the 
time  it  had  taken  his  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  make  out  the 
touching  sentences.  After  she  had  done  so,  she  stood  for 
a  few  moments  as  if  surprised  or  baffled.  Then  she  sat 
down,  dropping  her  head,  and  remained  for  a  long  time 
without  speaking. 

"  The  bitter  fruit,  Mr.  Dinneford,"  she  sa^d,  at  last,  in 
a  voice  so  strange  and  hard  that  it  seemed  to  his  eara 
as  if  another  had  spoken.  All  passion  had  died  out 
of  it. 

He  waited,  but  she  added  nothing  more.  After  a  long 
silence  she  waved  her  hand  slightly,  and  without  looking 
Rt  her  husband,  said, 

"  I  would  rather  be  alone." 

Mr.  Dinneford  took  Edith's  letter  from  the  floor,  when? 


CAST  ADRIFT.  31 

it  had  dropped  from  his  wife's  hand,  and  withdrew  A*om 
her  presence.  She  arose  quickly  as  he  did  so,  crossed 
the  room  and  silently  turned  the  key,  locking  herself  in. 
Then  her  manner  changed ;  she  moved  about  the  room 
in  a  half-aimless,  half-conscious  way,  as  though  some 
purpose  was  beginning  to  take  shape  in  her  mind.  Her 
motions  had  an  easy,  cat-like  grace,  in  contrast  with  their 
immobility  a  little  while  before.  Gradually  her  step 
became  quicker,  while  ripples  of  feeling  began  to  pass 
over  her  face,  which  was  fast  losing  its  pallor.  Gleams 
of  light  began  shooting  from  her  eyes,  that  were  so  dull 
and  stony  when  her  husband  found  her  with  Edith's 
letter  crushed  in  her  grasp.  Her  hands  opened  and  shut 
upon  themselves  nervously.  This  went  on,  the  excite 
ment  of  her  forming  purpose,  whatever  it  was,  steadily 
increasing,  until  she  swept  about  the  room  like  a  fury, 
talking  to  herself  and  gesticulating  as  one  half  insane 
from  the  impelling  force  of  an  evil  passion. 

"  Baffled,  but  not  defeated."  The  excitement  had  died 
out.  She  spoke  these  words  aloud,  and  with  a  bitter 
satisfaction  in  her  voice,  then  sat  down,  resting  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  remaining  for  a  long  time  in  deep 
thought. 

When  she  met  her  husband,  an  hour  afterward,  there 
was  a  veil  over  her  face,  and  he  tried  in  vain  to  look 
beneath  it.  She  was  greatly  changed;  her  countenance 
had  a  new  expression — something  he  had  never  seen 
there  before.  For  years  she  had  been  growing  away 
from  him ;  now  she  seemed  like  one  removed  to  a  great 
lisfcwce— to  have  become  almost  a  stranger.  He  felt 


32  CAST  ADRIFT. 

half  afraid  of  her.  She  did  not  speak  of  Edith,  but 
remained  cold,  silent  and  absorbed. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  gave  no  sign  of  what  was  in  her  heart 
for  many  weeks.  The  feeling  of  distance  and  strange 
ness  perceived  by  her  husband  went  on  increasing,  until 
a  vague  feeling  of  mystery  and  fear  began  to  oppress 
him.  Several  times  he  had  spoken  of  Edith,  but  his  wife 
made  no  response,  nor  could  he  read  in  her  veiled  face 
the  secret  purposes  she  was  hiding  from  him. 

No  wonder  that  Mr.  Dinneford  was  greatly  surprised 
and  overjoyed,  on  coming  home  one  day,  to  meet  his 
daughter,  to  f?.el  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  to  hold 
her  tearful  face  on  his  bosom. 

"And  I'm  not  going  away  again,  father  dear,"  she 
said  as  she  kissed  him  fondly.  "  Mother  has  sent  for  me, 
and  George  is  to  come.  Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy,  so 
happy  I" 

And  father  and  daughter  cried  together,  like  two  happy 
children,  in  very  excess  of  gladness.  They  had  met 
alone,  but  Mrs.  Dinneford  came  in,  her  presence  falling 
on  them  like  a  cold  shadow. 

"Two  great  babies,"  she  said,  a  covert  sneer  in  her 
chilling  voice. 

The  joy  went  slowly  out  of  their  faces,  though  not  out 
of  their  hearts.  There  it  nestled,  and  warmed  the  renew 
ing  blood.  But  a  vague,  questioning  fear  began  to  creep 
in,  a  sense  of  insecurity,  a  dread  of  hidden  danger.  The 
daughter  did  not  fully  trust  her  mother,  nor  the  husband 
hk  wife. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  reception  of  young  Granger  was  as  cordial  as 
Mrs.  Dinneford  chose  to  make  it.  She  wanted  to 
get  near  enough  to  study  his  character  thoroughly,  to  dis 
cover  its  weaknesses  and  defects,  not  its  better  qualities, 
BO  that  she  might  do  for  him  the  evil  work  that  was  in 
hei  heart.  She  hated  him  with  a  bitter  hatred,  and  there 
is  lothing  so  subtle  and  tireless  and  unrelenting  as  the 
hat\  ed  of  a  bad  woman. 

Sae  found  him  weak  and  unwary.  His  kindly  nature, 
his  high  sense  of  honor,  his  upright  purpose,  his  loving 
de\  jtion  to  Edith,  were  nothing  in  her  eyes.  She  spurned 
them  in  her  thoughts,  she  trampled  them  under  her  feet 
with  scorn.  But  she  studied  his  defects,  and  soon  knew 
every  weak  point  in  his  character.  She  drew  him  out  to 
speak  of  himself,  of  his  aims  and  prospects,  of  his  friends 
and  associates,  until  she  understood  him  altogether 
Then  she  laid  her  plans  for  his  destruction. 

Granger  was  holding  a  clerkship  at  the  time  of  hia 
marriage,  but  was  anxious  to  get  a  start  for  himself.  He 
had  some  acquaintance  with  a  man  named  Lloyd  Freeling, 
and  often  spoke  of  him  in  connection  with  business. 
Freeling  bad  a  store  on  one  of  the  best  streets,  and,  as 
repiesented  by  himself,  a  fine  run  of  trade,  but  wanted 
more  capital.  One  day  he  said  to  Granger, 

C  3,3 


34  CAST  ADRiFT. 

"If  I  could  find  the  right  man  with  ten  thousand 
dollars,  I  would  take  him  in.  We  could  double  this 
business  in  a  year." 

Granger  repeated  the  remark  at  home.  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford  listened,  laid  it  up  in  her  thought,  and  on  the  next 
day  called  at  the  store  of  Mr.  Freeling  to  see  what 
manner  of  man  he  was. 

Her  first  impression  was  favorable — she  liked  him.  Oc 
a  second  visit  she  liked  him  better.  She  was  not  aware 
that  Freeling  knew  her ;  in  this  he  had  something  of  the 
advantage.  A  third  time  she  dropped  in,  asking  to  see 
certain  goods  and  buying  a  small  bill,  as  before.  This 
time  she  drew  Mr.  Freeling  into  convfc-Sation  about  busi 
ness,  and  put  some  questions  the  meaning  of  which  he 
understood  quite  as  well  as  she  did. 

A  woman  like  Mrs.  Dinneford  can  read  character 
dlmost  as  easily  as  she  can  read  a  printed  page,  particu 
larly  a  weak  or  bad  character.  She  knew  perfectly, 
before  the  close  of  this  brief  interview,  that  Freeling  was 
a  man  without  principle,  false  and  unscrupulous,  and 
that  if  Granger  were  associated  with  him  in  business,  he 
could,  if  he  chose,  not  only  involve  him  in  transactions 
of  a  dishonest  nature,  but  throw  upon  Ir'm  the  odium 
and  the  consequences. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said  to  Granger,  not  long  after 
ward,  "  that  your  friend,  Mr.  Freeling,  would  like  to  have 
you  for  a  partner  in  business  ?" 

The  question  surprised  and  excited  him, 

"  I  know  it,"  he  returned ;  "  he  ha?  said  so  more 


CAST  ADRIFT.  34 

«  How  much  capital  would  he  require  ?" 

"  Ten  thousand  dollars." 

"  A  large  sum  to  risk." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  risk.  The 
business  is  well  established." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Freeling  ?" 

"  Not  a  great  deal ;  but  if  I  am  any  judge  of  character 
he  is  fair  and  honorable." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  turned  her  head  that  Granger  might 
uot  see  the  expression  of  her  face. 

"  You  had  better  talk  with  Mr.  Dinneford,"  she  said. 

But  Mr.  Dinneford  did  not  favor  it.  He  had  seen  too 
many  young  men  go  into  business  and  fail. 

So  the  matter  was  dropped  for  a  little  while.  But 
Mrs.  Dinneford  had  set  her  heart  on  the  young  man'a 
destruction,  and  no  better  way  of  accomplishing  the  work 
presented  itself  than  this.  He  must  be  involved  in  some 
way  to  hurt  his  good  name,  to  blast  his  reputation  and 
drive  him  to  ruin.  Weak,  trusting,  and  pliable,  a  specious 
villain  in  whom  he  had  confidence  might  easily  get  him 
involved  in  transactions  that  were  criminal  under  the 
law.  She  would  be  willing  to  sacrifice  twice  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  accomplish  this  result. 

Neither  Mr.  Dinneford  nor  Edith  favored  the  business 
connection  with  Freeling,  and  said  all  they  could  against 
it.  In  weak  natures  we  often  find  great  pertinacity. 
Granger  had  this  quality.  He  had  set  his  mind  on  the 
copartnership,  and  saw  in  it  a  high  road  to  fortune,  and 
no  argument  of  Mr.  Dinneford,  nor  opposition  of  Edith, 
had  power  to  change  his  views,  or  to  hold  him  back  from 


36  CAST  .ADRIFT. 

the  arrangement  favored  by  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  made 
possible  by  the  capital  she  almost  compelled  her  husband 
to  supply. 

In  due  time  the  change  from  clerk  to  merchant  was 
made,  and  the  new  connection  announced,  under  the  title 
of  "  FREELING  &  GRANGER." 

Clear-seeing  as  evil  may  be  in  its  schemes  for  hurting 
others,  it  is  always  blind  to  the  consequent  exactions  upon 
itself;  it  strikes  fiercely  and  desperately,  not  calculating 
the  force  of  a  rebound.  So  eager  was  Mrs.  Dinneford  to 
compass  the  ruin  of  Granger  that  she  stepped  beyond 
the  limit  of  common  prudence,  and  sought  private  inter 
views  with  Freeling,  both  before  and  after  the  completion 
of  the  partnership  arrangement.  These  took  place  in  the 
parlor  of  a  fashionable  hotel,  where  the  gentleman  and 
lady  seemed  to  meet  accidentally,  and  without  attracting 
attention. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  was  very  confidential  in  these  inter 
views,  not  concealing  her  aversion  to  Granger.  He  had 
come  into  the  family,  she  said,  as  an  unwelcome  intruder ; 
but  now  that  he  was  there,  they  had  to  make  the  best  of 
him.  Not  in  spoken  words  did  Mrs.  Dinneford  convey 
to  Freeling  the  bitter  hatred  that  was  in  her  heart,  nor 
in  spoken  words  let  him  know  that  she  desired  the  young 
man's  utter  ruin,  but  he  understood  it  all  before  the  close 
of  their  first  private  interview.  Freeling  was  exceedingly 
deferential  in  the  beginning  and  guarded  in  his  speech. 
He  knew  by  the  quick  intuitions  of  his  nature  that  Mrs. 
Dinneford  cherished  an  evil  purpose,  and  had  chosen  him 
as  the  agent  for  its  accomplishment.  She  was  rich,  and 


CAST  ADRIFT.  37 

occupied  a  high  social  position,  and  his  ready  conclusion 
was  that,  be  the  service  what  it  might,  he  could  make  it 
pay.  To  get  such  a  woman  in  his  power  was  worth  an 
effort. 

One  morning — it  was  a  few  months  after  the  date  of 
the  copartnership — Mrs.  Dinneford  received  a  note  from 
Freeling.  It  said,  briefly, 

"At  the  usual  place,  12  M.  to- day.  Important."  There 
was  no  signature. 

The  sharp  knitting  of  her  brows  and  the  nervous 
crumpling  of  the  note  in  her  hand  showed  that  she  wag 
not  pleased  at  the  summons.  She  had  come  already  to 
know  her  partner  in  evil  too  well.  At  12  M.  she  was  in 
the  hotel  parlor.  Freeling  was  already  there.  They 
met  iii  external  cordiality,  but  it  was  very  evident  from 
the  manner  of  Mrs.  Dinneford,  that  she  felt  herself  in 
the  man's  power,  and  had  learned  to  be  afraid  of  him. 

"  It  will  be  impossible  to  get  through  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  in  a  kind  of  imperative  voice,  that  was  .half  a  threat, 
"  unless  we  have  two  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  cannot  ask  Mr.  Dinneford  for  anything  more,"  Mrs. 
Dinneford  replied ;  "  we  have  already  furnished  ten  thou 
sand  dollars  beyond  the  original  investment." 

"  But  it  is  all  r?.fp  enough — that  is,  if  we  do  not  break 
rlown  just  here  for  lack  of  so  small  a  sum." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  gave  a  start. 

"  Break  down  I"  She  repeated  the  words  in  a  husky 
roice,  with  a  paling  face.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Only  that  in  consequence  of  having  in  store  a  large 
itock  of  unsalable  goods  bought  by  your  indiscreet  sou 

4 


38  CAST  ADRIFT. 

in-law,  wlio  knows  no  more  about  business  than  a  child, 
we  are  in  a  temporary  strait." 

"Why  did  you  trust  him  to  buy?"  asked  Mrs. 
Dinneford. 

"I  didn't  trust  him.  He  bought  without  consulting 
me,"  was  replied,  almost  rudely. 

"  Will  two  thousand  be  the  end  of  this  thing  ?" 

« I  think  so." 

"  You  only  think  so  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Very  wel  ;  I  will  see  what  can  be  done.  But  all  this 
must  have  an  end,  Mr.  Freeling.  We  cannot  supply  any 
more  money.  You  must  look  elsewhere  if  you  have  further 
need.  Mr.  Dinneford  is  getting  very  much  annoyed  and 
worried.  You  surely  have  other  resources." 

"  I  have  drawn  to  the  utmost  on  all  my  resources,"  said 
the  man,  coldly. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  remained  silent  for  a  good  while,  her 
eyes  upon  th,e  floor.  Freeling  watched  her  face  intently, 
trying  to  read  what  was  in  her  thoughts.  At  last  she 
said,  in  a  suggestive  tone, 

"There  are  many  ways  of  getting  money  known  to 
business-men — a  little  risky  some  of  them,  perhaps,  but 
desperate  cases  require  desperate  expedients.  You  under- 
itand  me  ?" 

Freeling  took  a  little  time  to  consider  before  replying. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  speaking  slowly,  as  one 
careful  of  his  words.  "  But  all  expedients  are  '  risky,'  aa 
you  say — some  of  them  very  risky.  It  takes  a  long,  cool 
head  tc  manage  them  safely." 


CAST  ADEIFT.  39 

"  I  don't  know  a  longer  or  cooler  head  than  yours,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Dinneford,  a  faint  smile  playing  about  her 
lips. 

"Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  said  Freeling,  hia 
lips  reflecting  the  smile  on  hers. 

"You  must  think  of  some  expedient."  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford's  manner  grew  impressive.  She  spoke  with  empha 
sis  and  deliberation.  "  Beyond  the  sum  of  two  thousand 
dollars,  which  I  will  get  for  you  by  to-morrow,  I  shall  not 
advance  a  single  penny.  You  may  set  that  down  as  sure. 
If  you  are  not  sharp  enough  and  strong  enough,  with  the 
advantage  you  possess,  to  hold  your  own,  then  you  must 
go  under ;  as  for  me,  I  have  done  all  that  I  can  or  will." 

Freeling  saw  that  she  was  wholly  in  earnest,  and 
understood  what  she  meant  by  "  desperate  expedients." 
Granger  was  to  be  ruined,  and  she  was  growing  impatient 
of  delay.  He  had  no  desire  to  hurt  the  young  man — he 
rather  liked  him.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  been  content 
with  what  he  could  draw  out  of  Mrs.  Dinneford.  There 
was  no  risk  in  this  sort  of  business.  Moreover,  he 
enjoyed  his  interviews  and  confidences  with  the  elegant 
lady,  and  of  late  the  power  he  seemed  to  be  gaining  over 
her ;  this  power  he  regarded  as  capital  laid  up  for  another 
use,  and  at  another  time. 

But  it  was  plain  that  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his 
present  financial  policy,  and  must  decide  whether  to 
adopt  the  new  one  suggested  by  Mrs.  Dinneford  or  make 
a  failure,  and  so  get  rid  of  his  partner.  The  question  he 
had  to  settle  with  himself  was  whether  he  could  make 
more  by  a  failure  than  by  using  Granger  a  while  longer, 


40  CAST  ADRIFT. 

and  then  throwing  him  overboard,  disgraced  and  mined 
Selfish  and  unscrupulous  as  he  was,  Freeling  hesitated  to 
do  this.  And  besides,  the  "desperate  expedients"  he 
would  have  to  adopt  in  the  new  line  of  policy  were 
fraught  with  peril  to  all  who  took  part  in  them.  He 
might  fall  into  the  snare  set  for  another — might  involve 
himself  so  deeply  as  not  to  find  a  way  of  escape. 

"  To-morrow  we  will  talk  this  matter  over,"  he  said  in 
reply  to  Mrs.  Dinneford's  last  remark ;  "  in  the  mean  time 
I  will  examine  the  ground  thoroughly  and  see  how  it 
looks." 

"  Don't  hesitate  to  make  any  use  you  can  of  Granger," 
suggested  the  lady.  "  He  has  done  his  part  toward  getting 
things  tangled,  and  must  help  to  untangle  them." 

"  All  right,  ma'am." 

And  they  separated,  Mrs.  Dinneford  reaching  the  street 
by  one  door  of  the  hotel,  and  Freeling  by  another. 

On  the  following  day  they  met  again,  Mrs.  Dinneford 
bringing  the  two  thousand  dollars. 

"  And  now  what  next  ?"  she  asked,  after  handing  over 
the  money  and  taking  the  receipt  of  "Freeling  & 
Granger."  Her  eyes  had  a  hard  glitter,  and  her  face 
was  almost  stern  in  its  expression.  "  How  are  you  going 
to  raise  money  and  keep  afloat  ?" 

"Only  some  desperate  expedient  is  left  me  now," 
answered  Freeling,  though  not  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
felt  himself  at  bay.  It  was  said  with  a  wicked  kind  of 
levity. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  looked  at  him  keenly.  She  was 
beginning  to  mistrust  the  man.  They  gazed  into  each 


CAST  ADRIFT.  41 

other's  faces  L_  silence  for  some  moments,  eac  h  trying  to 
read  what  was  in  the  other's  thought  At  leDgth  Free- 
ling  said, 

"There  is  one  thing  more  that  you  will  have  to  dc^ 
Mrs.  Dinneford." 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"  Get  your  husband  to  draw  two  or  three  notes  in  Mr. 
Granger's  favor.  They  should  not  be  for  less  than  five 
hundred  or  a  thousand  dollars  each.  The  dates  must  be 
short — not  over  thirty  or  sixty  days." 

"  It  can't  be  done,"  was  the  emphatic  answer. 

"  It  must  be  done,"  replied  Freeling ;  "  they  need  not 
be  for  the  business.  You  can  manage  the  matter  if  you 
will ;  your  daughter  wants  an  India  shawl,  or  a  set  of 
diamonds,  or  a  new  carriage — anything  you  choose.  Mr. 
Dinneford  hasn't  the  ready  cash,  but  we  can  throw  his 
notes  into  bank  and  get  the  money ;  don't  you  see  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Dinneford  didn't  see. 

"  I  don't  mean,"  said  Freeling,  "that  we  are  to  use  the 
money.  Let  the  shawl,  or  the  diamond,  or  the  what-not, 
be  bought  and  paid  for.  We  get  the  discounts  for  your 
use,  not  ours." 

"  All  very  well,"  answered  Mrs.  Dinneford ;  "  but  how 
is  that  going  to  help  you  ?" 

"Leave  that  to  me.  You  get  the  notes,"  said  Free- 
ling. 

"I  never  walk  blindfold,  Mr.  Freeling,"  replied  the 
lady,  drawing  herself  up,  with  a  dignified  air.  "We 
ought  to  understand  each  other  by  thin  time  I  must  se* 
beyond  the  mere  use  of  these  notes." 


42  CAST  ADEIFT. 

Freeling  shut  his  mouth  tightly  and  knit  his  heavj 
brows.  Mrs.  Dinneford  watched  him  closely. 

"  It's  a  desperate  expedient,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"All  well  as  far  as  that  is  concerned ;  but  if  I  am  to 
have  a  hand  in  it,  I  must  know  all  about  it,"  she  replied, 
firmly.  "  As  I  said  just  now,  I  never  walk  blindfold." 

Freeling  leaned  close  to  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  uttered  a 
few  sentences  in  a  low  tone,  speaking  rapidly.  The  color 
went  and  came  in  her  face,  but  she  sat  motionless,  and  so 
continued  for  some  time  after  he  had  ceased  speaking. 

"  You  will  get  the  notes  ?"  Freeling  put  the  question 
as  one  who  has  little  doubt  of  the  answer. 

"  I  will  get  them,"  replied  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"When?" 

"  It  will  take  time." 

"  We  cannot  wait  long.  If  the  thing  is  done  at  all,  it 
must  be  done  quickly.  '  Strike  while  the  iron  is  hot '  is 
the  best  of  all  maxims." 

"  There  shall  be  no  needless  delay  on  my  part.  You 
may  trust  me  for  that,"  was  answered. 

Within  a  week  Mrs.  Dinneford  brought  two  notes, 
drawn  by  her  husband  in  favor  of  George  Grangei  —one 
for  five  hundred  and  the  other  for  one  thousand  dollars. 
The  time  was  short — thirty  and  sixty  days.  On  this  oc 
casion  she  came  to  the  store  and  asked  for  her  son-in- 
law.  The  meeting  between  her  and  Freeling  was  reserved 
and  formal.  She  expressed  regret  for  the  trouble  she  was 
giving  the  firm  in  procuring  a  discount  for  her  use,  and 
said  that  if  she  could  reciprocate  the  favor  in  any  way 
the  would  be  happy  to  do  so. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  43 

"  The  notes  are  drawn  to  your  order,"  remarked  Fre»* 
iing  as  soon  as  the  lady  had  retired.  Granger  endorsed 
them,  and  was  about  handing  them  to  his  partner,  when 
the  latter  said : 

"  Put  our  name  on  them  while  you  are  about  it."  And 
the  young  man  wrote  also  the  endorsement  of  the  firm. 

After  this,  Mr.  Freeling  put  the  bank  business  into 
Granger's  hands.  Nearly  all  checks  were  drawn  and  all 
business  paper  endorsed  by  the  younger  partner,  who  be 
came  the  financier  of  the  concern,  and  had  the  manage 
ment  of  all  negotiations  for  money  in  and  out  of  bank. 

One  morning,  shortly  after  the  first  of  Mr.  Dinneford's 
notes  was  paid,  Granger  saw  his  mother-in-law  come  into 
the  store.  Freeling  was  at  the  counter.  They  talked  to 
gether  for  some  time,  and  then  Mrs.  Dinneford  went  out. 

On  the  next  day  Granger  saw  Mrs.  Dinneford  in  the 
store  again.  After  she  had  gone  away,  Freeling  came 
back,  and  laying  a  note-of-hand  on  his  partner's  desk, 
said,  in  a  pleased,  confidential  way, 

"  Look  at  that,  my  friend." 

Granger  read  the  face  of  the  note  with  a  start  of  so-r- 
prise.  It  was  drawn  to  his  order,  for  three  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  bore  the  signature  of  Howard  Dinneford. 

"  A  thing  that  is  worth  having  is  worth  asking  for,'* 
said  Freeling.  "We  obliged  your  mother-in-law,  and 
now  she  has  returned  the  favor.  It  didn't  come  very 
easily,  she  said,  and  your  father-in-law  isn't  feeling  rathe t 
comfortable  about  it;  so  she  doesn't  care  about  youi 
ipeaking  of  it  at  home." 

Granger  was  confounded. 


44  CAST  ADRIFT. 

« I  can't  understand  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  can  understand  that  we  have  the  note,  and  thai 
it  has  come  in  the  nick  of  time,"  returned  Freeling. 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  all  that." 

"  Well,  don't  look  a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth,  but  spring 
into  the  saddle  and  take  a  ride.  Your  mother-in-law  is  a 
trump.  If  she  will,  she  will,  you  may  depend  on't." 

Freeling  was  unusually  excited.  Granger  looked  the 
note  over  and  over  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  annoy  hia 
partner,  who  said,  presently,  with  a  shade  of  ill-nature  in 
his  voice, 

"  What's  the  matter  ?    Isn't  the  signature  all  right  ?" 

"  That's  right  enough,"  returned  the  young  man,  after 
Looking  at  it  closely.  "  But  I  can't  understand  it." 

"You  will  when  you  see  the  proceeds  passed  to  our 
account  in  bank — ha !  ha !" 

Granger  looked  up  at  his  partner  quickly,  the  laugh 
had  so  strange  a  sound,  but  saw  nothing  new  in  his  face. 

In  about  a  month  Freeling  had  in  his  possession  an 
other  note,  signed  by  Mr.  Dinneford  and  drawn  to  the 
order  of  George  Granger.  This  one  was  for  five  thousand 
dollars.  He  handed  it  to  his  partner  soon  after  the  latter 
had  observed  Mrs.  Dinneford  in  the  store. 

A  little  over  six  weeks  from  this  time,  Mrs.  Dinne 
ford  was  in  the  store  again.  After  she  had  gone  away, 
Freeling  handed  Granger  three  more  notes  drawn  by  Mr. 
Dinneford  to  his  order,  amounting  in  all  to  fifteen  thou 
sand  dollars.  They  were  at  short  dates. 

Granger  took  these  notes  without  any  remark,  and  waa 
*bout  putting  them  in  his  desk,  when  Freeling  said, 


CAST  ADRIFT.  4Ji 

"  I  think  you  had  better  offer  one  in  the  People's  Bank 
and  another  in  the  Fourth  National.  They  discount  to 
morrow." 

"Our  line  is  full  in  both  of  these  banks,"  replied 
Granger. 

"  That  may  or  may  not  be.  Paper  like  this  is  not  often 
thrown  out.  Call  on  the  president  of  the  Fourth  Na 
tional  and  the  cashier  of  the  People's  Bank.  Say  that 
we  particularly  want  the  money,  and  would  like  them  to 
pee  that  the  notes  go  through.  Star  &  Giltedge  can  easily 
)-lace  the  other." 

Granger's  manner  did  not  altogether  please  his  part 
ner.  The  notes  lay  before  him  on  his  desk,  and  he  looked 
tt  them  in  a  kind  of  dazed  way. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Freeling,  rather  sharply. 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 

*<  You  saw  Mrs.  Dinneford  in  the  store  just  now.  I 
tu^d  her  last  week  that  I  should  claim  another  favor  at 
her  hands.  She  tried  to  beg  off,  but  I  pushed  the  matter 
hard.  It  must  end  here,  she  says.  Mr.  Dinneford  won't 
go  any  farther." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  replied  Granger.  "  I  wouldn't  if 
I  were  he.  The  wonder  to  me  is  that  he  has  gone  so  far. 
What  about  the  renewal  of  these  notes  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  arranged,"  returned  Freeling,  a  little 
hurriedly.  Granger  looked  at  him  for  some  moments. 
He  was  not  satisfied. 

"  See  that  they  go  in  bank,"  said  Freeling,  in  a  positiye 
way. 

Granger  took  up  his  pen  in  an  abstracted  manner  and 


46  CAST  ADRIFT. 

endorsed  the  notes,  after  which  he  laid  them  in  his  bank 
book.  An  important  customer  coming  in  at  the  moment^ 
Freeling  went  forward  to  see  him.  After  Granger  was 
left  alone,  he  took  the  notes  from  his  bank-book  and  ex 
amined  them  with  great  care.  Suspicion  was  aroused. 
He  felt  sure  that  something  was  wrong.  A  good  many 
things  in  Freeling's  conduct  of  late  had  seemed  strange. 
After  thinking  for  a  while,  he  determined  to  take  the 
notes  at  once  to  Mr.  Dinneford  and  ask  him  if  all  was 
right.  As  soon  as  his  mind  had  reached  this  conclusion 
he  hurried  through  the  work  he  had  on  hand,  and  then 
putting  his  bank-book  in  his  pocket,  left  the  store. 

On  that  very  morning  Mr.  Dinneford  received  notice 
that  he  had  a  note  for  three  thousand  dollars  falling  due 
<tt  one  of  the  banks.  He  went  immediately  and  asked  to 
see  the  note.  When  it  was  shown  to  him,  he  was  observed 
to  become  very  pale,  but  he  left  the  desk  of  the  no£e- 
clerk  without  any  remark,  and  returned  home.  He  met 
his  wife  at  the  door,  just  coming  in. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  she  asked,  seeing  how  pale  he 
was.  "  Not  sick,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Worse  than  sick,"  he  replied  as  they  passed  into  the 
house  together.  "  George  has  been  forging  my  name." 

"  Impossible !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"I  wish  it  were,"  replied  Mr.  Dinneford,  sadly;  "but, 
alas!  it  is  too  true.  I  have  just  returned  from  the  Fourth 
National  Bank.  They  have  a  note  for  three  thousand 
dollars,  bearing  my  signature.  It  is  drawn  to  the  order 
of  George  Granger,  and  endorsed  by  him.  The  note  is  a 
forgery." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  47 

Mrs.  Dinneford  became  almost  wild  with  excitement 
Her  fair  face  grew  purple.  Her  eyes  slione  with  a  fierce 
light. 

"  Have  you  had  him  arrested  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!"  Mr.  Dinneford  answered.  "For 
poor  Edith's  sake,  if  for  nothing  else,  this  dreadful  busi 
ness  must  be  kept  secret.  I.  will  take  up  the  note  when 
due,  aod  the  public  need  be  none  the  wiser." 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  "  he  has  forged  your  name 
once,  he  has,  in  all  probability,  done  it  again  and  again. 
No,  no ;  the  thing  can't  be  hushed  up,  and  it  must  not 
be.  Is  he  less  a  thief  and  a  robber  because  he  is  our 
son-in-law?  My  daughter  the  wife  of  a  forger!  Great 
heavens !  has  it  come  to  this,  Mr.  Dinneford  ?"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  and  with  intense  bitterness  and  rejection  in 
her  voice.  "  The  die  is  cast !  Never  again,  if  I  can  pre 
vent  it,  shall  that  scoundrel  cross  our  threshold.  Let  the 
law  have  its  course.  It  is  a  crime  to  conceal  crime." 

"  It  will  kill  our  poor  child !"  answered  Mr.  Dinneford 
in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Death  is  better  than  the  degradatioo  of  living  with  a 
criminal,"  replied  his  wife.  "  I  say  it  solemnly,  and  I 
mean  it;  the  die  is  cast!  Come  what  will,  George 
Granger  stands  now  and  for  ever  on  the  outside !  Go  at 
once  and  give  information  to  the  bank  officers.  If  you 
do  not,  I  will." 

With  a  heavy  heart  Mr.  Dinneford  returned  to  the 
bank  and  informed  the  president  that  the  note  in  question 
was  a  forgery.  He  had  been  gone  from  home  a  little 
nver  half  an  hour,  when  Granger,  who  had  come  to 


48  CAST  ADRIFT. 

ask  him  about  the  three  notes  given  him  that  morning 
by  Freeling,  put  his  key  in  the  door,  and  found,  a  little 
to  his  surprise,  that  the  latch  was  down.  He  rang  the 
bell,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  servant  appeared. 
Granger  was  about  passing  in,  when  the  man  said,  respect 
fully  but  firmly,  as  he  held  the  door  partly  closed, 

"  My  orders  are  not  to  let  you  come  in." 

"Who  gave  you  those  orders?"  demanded  Grangei 
turning  white. 

"  Mrs.  Dinneford." 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Dinneford,  and  I  must  see  hi  n 
immediately." 

"  Mr.  Dinneford  is  not  at  home,"  answered  the  servant. 

"  Shut  that  door  instantly!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Dinneford,  speaking  from 
within.  Granger  heard  it ;  in  the  next  moment  the  door 
was  shut  in  his  face. 

The  young  man  hardly  knew  how  he  got  back  to  the 
store.  On  his  arrival  he  found  himself  under  arrest, 
charged  with  forgery,  and  with  fresh  evidence  of  the 
crime  oh  his  person  in  the  three  notes  received  that  morn 
ing  from  his  partner,  who  denied  all  knowledge  of  their 
existence,  and  appeared  as  a  witness  against  him  at  the 
hearing  before  a  magistrate.  Granger  was  held  to  bail  to 
answer  the  charge  at  the  next  term  of  court. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  keep  all  this  from 
Edith,  even  if  there  had  been  a  purpose  to  do  so.  Mrs 
Dinneford  chose  to  break  the  dreadful  news  at  her  own 
time  and  in  her  own  way.  The  shock  was  fearful.  Ou 
the  night  that  followed  her  baby  was  born. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"IT  is  a  splendid  boy,"  said  the  nurse  as  she  came  in 

JL  with  the  new-born  baby  in  her  arms,  "  and  perfect  aa 
a  bit  of  sculpture.  Just  look  at  that  hand." 

"Faugh!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dinneford,  to  whom  this 
was  addressed.  Her  countenance  expressed  disgust.  She 
turned  her  head  away.  "  Hide  the  thing  from  my  sight !' 
she  added,  angrily.  "Cover  it  up!  smother  it  if  you 
will!" 

"  You  are  still  determined  ?"  said  the  nu  *se. 

"  Determined,  Mrs.  Bray ;  I  am  not  the  woman  to  look 
back  when  I  have  once  resolved.  You  know  me."  Mrs. 
Dinneford  said  this  passionately. 

The  two  women  were  silent  for  a  little  while.  Mrs. 
Bray,  the  nurse,  kept  her  face  partly  turned  from  Mrs. 
Dinneford.  She  was  a  short,  dry,  wiry  little  woman, 
with  French  features,  a  sallow  complexion  and  very  black 
eyes. 

The  doctor  looked  in.  Mrs.  Dinneford  went  quickly  to 
Ihe  door,  and  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm,  pressed  him 
back,  going  out  into  the  entry  with  him  and  closing  thp 
door  behind  them.  They  talked  for  a  short  time  very 
earnestly. 

"The  whole  thing  is  wrong,"  said  the  doctor  as  b« 

6  B  40 


50  CAST  ADRIFT. 

turned  to  go,  "and  I  will  not  be  answerable  for  tht 
consequences." 

"  No  one  will  require  them  at  your  hand,  Doctor  Rad- 
cliffe,"  replied  Mrs.  Diuneford.  "  Do  the  best  you  can 
for  Edith.  As  for  the  rest,  know  nothing,  say  ix>thmg. 
You  understand." 

Doctor  Burt  Radcliffe  had  a  large  practice  among  rich 
and  fashionable  people.  He  had  learned  to  be  very  con* 
Biderate  of  their  weaknesses,  peculiarities  and  moral  ob 
liquities.  His  business  was  to  doctor  them  when  sick,  tc 
humor  them  when  they  only  thought  themselves  sick,  and 
to  get  the  largest  possible  fees  for  his  services.  A  great 
deal  came  under  his  observation  that  he  did  not  care  tc 
see,  and  of  which  he  saw  as  little  as  possible.  From 
policy  he  had  learned  to  be  reticent.  He  held  family 
secrets  enough  to  make,  in  the  hands  of  a  skillful  writer, 
more  than  a  dozen  romances  of  the  saddest  and  most  ex.. 
citing  character. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  knew  him  thoroughly,  and  just  how  fai 
to  trust  him.  "  Know  nothing,  say  nothing  "  was  a  good 
maxim  in  the  case,  and  so  she  divulged  only  the  fact  that 
the  baby  was  to  be  cast  adrift.  His  weak  remonstrance 
might  as  well  not  have  been  spoken,  and  he  knew  it. 

While  this  brief  interview  was  in  progress,  Nurse  Bray 
sat  with  the  baby  on  her  lap.  She  had  taken  the  soft 
little  hands  into  her  own ;  and  evil  and  cruel  though  she 
was,  an  impulse  of  tenderness  flowed  into  her  heart  from 
the  angels  who  were  present  with  the  innocent  child.  It 
grew  lovely  in  her  eyes.  Its  helplessness  stirred  in  her  a 
-atent  instinct  of  protection.  "  No,  no,  it  must  not  be,"  she 


CAST  ADRIFT.  51 

was  saying  to  herself,  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Dinneford  came  back. 

Mrs.  Bray  did  not  lift  her  head,  but  sat  looking  down 
at  the  baby  and  toying  with  its  hands. 

*l  Pshaw !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dinneford,  in  angry  disgust, 
as  she  noticed  this  manifestation  of  interest.  "Bundle 
the  thing  up  and  throw  it  into  that  basket.  Is  the  woman 
down  stairs  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray  as  she  slowly  drew  a  light 
blanket  over  the  baby. 

"  Very  well.  Put  it  in  the  basket,  and  let  her  take  it 
away." 

"  She  is  not  a  good  woman,"  said  the  nurse,  whose  heart 
was  failing  her  at  the  last  moment. 

"  She  may  be  the  devil  for  all  I  care,"  returned  Mrs. 
Dinneford. 

Mrs.  Bray  did  as  she  was  ordered,  but  with  an  evident 
reluctance  that  irritated  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"  Go  now  and  bring  up  the  woman,"  she  said,  sharply. 

The  woman  was  brought.  She  was  past  the  prime  of 
life,  and  had  an  evil  face.  You  read  in  it  the  record  of 
bad  passions  indulged  and  the  signs  of  a  cruel  nature. 
She  was  poorly  clad,  and  her  garments  unclean. 

"You  will  take  this  child?"  said  Mrs.  Dinnefcrd,  ab. 
ruptly,  as  the  woman  came  into  her  presence. 

"  I  have  agreed  to  do  so,"  she  replied,  looking  toward 
Mrs.  Bray. 

"  She  is  to  have  fifty  dollars,"  said  the  nurse. 

"And  that  is  to  be  the  last  of  it!"  Mrs.  Dinneford'a 
face  was  pale,  and  she  spoke  in  a  hard,  husky  voioeu 


62  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Opening  her  purse,  she  took  from  it  a  small  roll  of  bilk, 
and  as  she  held  out  the  money  said,  slowly  and  with  a 
hard  emphasis, 

"  You  understand  the  terms.  I  do  not  know  you — not 
even  your  name.  I  don't  wish  to  know  you.  For  this 
consideration  you  take  the  child  away.  That  is  the  end 
of  it  between  you  and  me.  The  child  is  your  own  as 
much  as  if  he  were  born  to  you,  and  you  can  do  with 
him  as  you  please.  And  now  go."  Mrs.  Dinneford 
waved  her  hand. 

"  His  name  ?"  queried  the  woman. 

"  He  has  no  name !"  Mrs.  Dinneford  stamped  her  foot 
in  angry  impatience. 

The  woman  stooped  down,  and  taking  up  the  basket, 
tucked  the  covering  that  had  been  laid  over  the  baby 
close  about  its  head,  so  that  no  one  could  see  what  she 
carried,  and  went  off  without  uttering  another  word. 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  Mrs.  Dinneford  or 
the  nurse  spoke.  Mrs.  Bray  was  first  to  break  silence. 

"All  this  means  a  great  deal  more  than  you  have 
counted  on,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  some  little 
feeling.  "  To  throw  a  tender  baby  out  like  that  is  a  hard 
thing.  I  am  afraid — " 

"  There,  there !  no  more  of  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Din 
neford,  impatiently.  "  It's  ugly  work,  I  own,  but  it  had 
to  be  done — like  cutting  off  a  diseased  limb.  He  will 
die,  of  course,  and  the  sooner  it  is  over,  the  better  for  him 
and  every  one  else." 

"  He  will  have  a  hard  struggle  for  life,  poor  little  thing  I" 
the  nurse.  "  I  would  rathor  see  him  dead." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  53 

Mrs.  Dinneford,  now  that  this  wicked  and  cruel  deed 
was  done,  felt  ill  at  ease.  She  pushed  the  subject  away, 
and  tried  to  bury  it  out  of  sight  as  we  bury  the  dead,  but 
did  not  fiud  the  task  an  easy  one. 

What  followed  the  birth  and  removal  of  Edith's  baby, 
up  to  the  time  of  her  return  to  reason  after  a  long  strug 
gle  for  life,  has  already  been  told.  Her  demand  to  have 
her  baby — "  Oh,  mother,  bring  me  my  baby !  I  shall  die 
if  you  do  not !"  and  the  answer, "  Your  baby  is  in  heaven !" 
— sent  the  feeble  life-currents  back  again  upon  her  heart. 
There  was  another  long  period  of  oblivion,  out  of  which 
she  came  very  slowly,  her  mind  almost  as  much  a  blank 
as  the  mind  of  a  child. 

She  had  to  learn  again  the  names  of  things,  and  to  be 
taught  their  use.  It  was  touching  to  see  the  untiring 
devotion  of  her  father,  and  the  pleasure  he  took  in 
every  new  evidence  of  mental  growth.  He  w«?nt  over 
the  alphabet  with  her,  letter  by  letter,  many  times  each 
day,  encouraging  her  and  holding  her  thought  down  to 
the  unintelligible  signs  with  a  patient  tenderness  sad  yet 
beautiful  to  see ;  and  when  she  began  to  combine  letters 
into  words,  and  at  last  to  put  words  together,  his  delight 
was  unbounded. 

Very  slowly  went  on  the  new  process  of  mental  growth, 
and  it  was  months  before  thought  began  to  reach  out  be- 
yond  the  little  world  that  lay  just  around  her. 

Meanwhile,  Edith's  husband  had  been  brought  to  trial 

for  forgery,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  the  State's  prison 

for  a  term  of  years.     His  partner  came  forward  as  the 

chief  witness,  swearing  that  he  had  believed  the  notes 

** 


54  CAST  ADRIFT. 

genuine,  the  firm  having  several  times  had  the  use  of 
Mr.  Dinneford's  paper,  drawn  to  the  order  of  Granger. 

Ere  the  day  of  trial  came  the  poor  young  man  was 
nearly  broken-hearted.  Public  disgrace  like  this,  added 
to  the  terrible  private  wrongs  he  was  suffering,  was  more 
than  he  had  the  moral  strength  to  bear.  Utterly  repudi 
ated  by  his  wife's  family,  and  not  even  permitted  to  seo 
Edith,  he  only  knew  that  she  was  very  ill.  Of  the  birth  of 
his  baby  he  had  but  a  vague  intimation.  A  rumor  waa 
abroad  that  it  had  died,  but  he  could  learn  nothing  cer 
tain.  In  his  distress  and  uncertainty  he  called  on  Dr. 
Radcliffe,  who  replied  to  his  questions  with  a  cold  evasion. 
"  It  was  put  out  to  nurse,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  that  is 
all  I  know  about  it."  Beyond  this  he  would  say  nothing. 

Granger  was  not  taken  to  the  State's  prison  after  his 
sentence,  but  to  an  insane  asylum.  Reason  gave  way 
under  the  terrible  ordeal  through  which  he  had  been 
made  to  pass. 

"  Mother,"  said  Edith,  one  day,  in  a  tone  that  caused 
Mrs.  Dinneford's  heart  to  leap.  She  was  reading  a  child's 
simple  story-book,  and  looked  up  as  she  spoke.  Her  eyes 
were  wide  open  and  full  of  questions. 

"  What,  my  dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinneford,  repressing 
her  feelings  and  trying  to  keep  her  voice  calm. 

"  There's  something  I  can't  understand,  mother."  She 
looked  down  at  herself,  then  about  the  room.  Her  man- 
ner  was  becoming  nervous. 

"  What  can't  you  understand  ?" 

Edith  shut  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  remained  very 
still.  When  she  removed  them,  and  her  mother  looked 


CAST  ADRIFT.  56 

into  her  face,  the  childlike  sweetness  and  content  were 
all  gone,  and  a  conscious  woman  was  before  her.  The 
transformation  was  as  sudden  as  it  was  marvelous. 

Both  remained  silent  for  the  space  of  nearly  a  minute. 
Mrs.  Dinneford  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  waited  for 
gome  sign  from  her  daughter. 

"  Where  is  my  baby,  mother  ?"  Edith  said  this  in  a 
low,  tremulous  whisper,  leaning  forward  as  she  spoke,  re 
pressed  and  eager. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with 
regained  composure. 

"  Forgotten  what  ?" 

"  You  were  very  ill  after  your  baby  was  born ;  no  one 
thought  you  could  live;  you  were  ill  for  a  long  time. 
And  the  baby — " 

"  What  of  the  baby,  mother  ?"  asked  Edith,  beginning 
to  tremble  violently.  Her  mother,  perceiving  her  agita 
tion,  held  back  the  word  that  was  on  her  lips. 

"What  of  the  baby,  mother?"  Edith  repeated  the 
question. 

"  It  died,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  turning  partly  away. 
She  could  not  look  at  her  child  and  utter  this  cruel  false 
hood. 

"  Dead !  Oh,  mother,  don't  say  that !  The  baoy  can't 
be  dead !" 

A  swift  flash  of  suspicion  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  said  it,  my  child,"  was  the  almost  stern  re 
sponse  of  Mrs.  Dinneford.  "  The  baby  is  dead." 

A  weight  seemed  to  fall  on  Edith.  She  bent  forward, 
crouching  down  until  her  elbows  rested  on  her  knees  and 


56  CAST  ADRIFT. 

her  hands  supp)rted  her  head.  Thus  she  sat,  rocking  hei 
body  with  a  slight  motion.  Mrs.  Dinneford  watched  hei 
without  speaking. 

"And  what  of  George?"  asked  Edith,  checking  hei 
nervous  movement  at  last. 

Her  mother  did  not  reply.  Edith  waited  a  moment, 
and  then  lifted  herself  erect. 

"  What  of  George  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  My  poor  child !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with  a 
gush  of  genuine  pity,  putting  her  arms  about  Edith  and 
drawing  her  head  against  her  bosom.  "  It  is  more  than 
you  have  strength  to  bear." 

"  You  must  tell  me,"  the  daughter  said,  disengaging 
herself.  "  I  have  asked  for  my  husband." 

"  Hush !  You  must  not  utter  that  word  again ;"  and 
Mrs.  Dinneford  put  her  fingers  on  Edith's  lips.  "  The 
wretched  man  you  once  called  by  that  name  is  a  dis 
graced  criminal.  It  is  better  that  you  know  the  worst." 

When  Mr.  Dinneford  came  home,  instead  of  the  quiet, 
happy  child  he  had  left  in  the  morning,  he  found  a  sad, 
almost  broken-hearted  woman,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 
The  wonder  was  that  under  the  shock  of  this  terrible 
awakening,  reason  had  not  been  again  and  hopelessly 
dethroned. 

After  a  period  of  intense  suffering,  pain  seemed  to 
deaden  sensibility.  She  grew  calm  and  passive.  And 
now  Mrs.  Dinneford  set  herself  to  the  completion  of  the 
work  she  had  begun.  She  had  compassed  the  ruin  of 
Granger  in  order  to  make  a  divorce  possible;  she  had 
cast  the  baby  adrift  that  no  sign  of  the  social  disgrace 


CAST  ADRIFT.  57 

might  remain  as  an  impediment  to  her  first  ambition. 
She  would  yet  see  her  daughter  in  the  position  to  which 
she  had  from  the  beginning  resolved  to  lift  her,  cost  what 
it  might.  But  the  task  was  not  to  be  an  easy  one. 

After  a  period  of  intense  suffering,  as  we  have  said, 
Edith  grew  calm  and  passive.  But  she  was  never  at  ease 
with  her  mother,  and  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  her.  To  her 
father  she  was  tender  and  confiding.  Mrs.  Dinneford 
soon  saw  that  if  Edith's  consent  to  a  divorce  from  her 
husband  was  to  be  obtained,  it  must  come  through  her 
father's  influence ;  for  if  she  but  hinted  at  the  subject,  it 
was  met  with  a  flash  of  almost  indignant  rejection.  So 
her  first  work  was  to  bring  her  husband  over  to  her  side. 
This  was  not  difficult,  for  Mr.  Dinneford  felt  the  disgrace 
of  having  for  a  son-in-law  a  condemned  criminal,  who 
was  only  saved  from  the  State's  prison  by  insanity.  An 
insane  criminal  was  not  worthy  to  hold  the  relation  of 
husband  to  his  pure  and  lovely  child. 

After  a  feeble  opposition  to  her  father's  arguments  and 
persuasions,  Edith  yielded  her  consent.     An 
for  a  divorce  was  made,  and  speedily  granted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OUT  of  this  furnace  Edith  came  with  a  new  and  purei 
spirit.  She  had  been  thrust  in  a  shrinking  and 
frightened  girl ;  she  came  out  a  woman  in  mental  stature, 
in  feeling  and  self-consciousness. 

The  river  of  her  life,  which  had  cut  for  itself  a  deeper 
channel,  lay  now  so  far  down  that  it  was  out  of  the  sight  of 
common  observation.  Even  her  mother  failed  to  appre 
hend  its  drift  and  strength.  Her  father  knew  her  better. 
To  her  mother  she  was  reserved  and  distant;  to  her 
father,  warm  and  confiding.  With  the  former  she  would 
sit  for  hours  without  speaking  unless  addressed ;  with  th* 
latter  she  was  pleased  and  social,  and  grew  to  bo 
interested  in  what  interested  him.  As  mentioned,  Mr 
Dinneford  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  leisure,  and  active 
in  many  public  charities.  He  had  come  to  be  much  con- 
cerned  for  the  neglected  and  cast-off  children  of  pooi 
and  vicious  parents,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  whom 
were  going  to  hopeless  ruin,  unthought  of  and  uncared  for 
by  Church  or  State,  and  their  condition  often  formed  the 
subject  of  his  conversation  as  well  at  home  as  elsewhere. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  had  no  sympathy  with  her  husband  in 
this  direction.  A  dirty,  vicious  child  was  an  offence  to 
her,  not  an  object  of  pity,  and  she  felt  more  like  spurn 
ing  it  with  her  foot  than  touching  it  with  her  hand. 
But  it  was  not  so  with  Edith ;  she  listened  to  her  father, 
68 


>   m 


THE  MOTHER'S  INSTINCT. 


See  pace  59. 


OAST  ADRIFT.  59 


And  became  deeply  interested  in  the  poor, 
neglected  little  ones  whose  sad  condition  he  could  st 
vindly  portray,  for  the  public  duties  of  charity  to  which 
he  was  giving  a  large  part  of  his  time  made  him  familial 
with  much  that  was  sad  and  terrible  in  human  suffering 
and  degradation. 

One  day  Edith  said  to  her  father, 

"I  saw  a  sight  this  morning  that  made  me  sick.  It 
has  haunted  me  ever  since.  Oh,  it  was  dreadful  1" 

«  What  was  it?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  A  sick  baby  in  the  arms  of  a  half-drunken  woman. 
It  made  me  shiver  to  look  at  its  poor  little  face,  wasted 
by  hunger  and  sickness  and  purple  with  cold.  The 
woman  sat  at  the  street  corner  begging,  and  the  people 
went  by,  no  one  seeming  to  care  for  the  helpless,  starving 
baby  in  her  arms.  I  saw  a  police-officer  almost  touch 
t)>e  woman  as  he  passed.  Why  did  he  not  arrest  her  ?" 

"  That  was  not  his  business,"  replied  Mr.  Dinneford. 
14  So  long  as  she  did  not  disturb  the  peace,  the  officer  had 
D  ->thing  to  do  with  her." 

"Who,  then,  has  ?" 

"Nobody." 

"  Why,  father  !"  exclaimed  Edith.    «  Nobody  ?" 

"The  woman  was  engaged  in  business.  She  was  a 
beggar,  and  the  sick,  half-starved  baby  was  her  capital 
in  trade,"  replied  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  That  policeman  had 
no  more  authority  to  arrest  her  than  he  had  to  arrest  the 
organ-man  or  the  peanut-vender." 

"  But  somebody  should  see  after  a  poor  baby  like  that. 
Is  there  no  law  to  meet  such  cases  ?" 


60  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  The  poor  baby  has  no  vote,"  replied  Mr.  Dinneford 
"arid  law-makers  don't  concern  themselves  much  about 
that  sort  of  constituency ;  and  even  if  they  did,  the  execu 
tors  of  law  would  be  found  indifferent.  They  are  much 
more  careful  to  protect  those  whose  business  it  is  to  make 
drunken  beggars  like  the  one  you  saw,  who,  if  men,  can 
vote  and  give  them  place  and  power.  The  poor  baby  is 
far  beneath  their  consideration." 

"But  not  of  Him,"  said  Edith,  with  eyes  full  of  tears, 
•'  who  took  little  children  in  his  arms  and  blessed  them, 
and  said,  Suffer  them  to  come  unto  me  and  forbid  them 
not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

"Our  law-makers  are  not,  I  fear,  of  his  kingdom/' 
answered  Mr.  Dinneford,  gravely,  "  but  of  the  kingdom 
of  this  world." 

^  little  while  after,  Edith,  who  had  remained  silent 
and  thoughtful,  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice, 

"  Father,  did  you  see  my  baby  ?" 

Mr.  Dinneford  started  at  so  unexpected  a  question,  sur 
prised  and  disturbed.  He  did  not  reply,  and  Edith  put 
the  question  again. 

"No,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  with  a  hesitation  of 
manner  that  was  almost  painful. 

After  looking  into  his  face  steadily  for  some  moments, 
Edith  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  con 
strained  silence  between  them  for  a  good  while. 

"  You  never  saw  it?"  she  queried,  again  lifting  her  eyes 
to  her  father's  face.  Her  own  was  much  paler  than  when 
she  first  put  the  question. 

-Never." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  81 

-  Why  Tasked  Edith. 

She  waited  for  a  little  while,  and  then  said, 

•'  Why  don't  you  answer  me,  father  ?" 

"  It  was  never  brought  to  me." 

« Oh,  father!" 

"  You  were  very  ill,  and  a  nurse  was  procured  imme- 
lately." 

"  I  was  not  too  sick  to  see  my  baby,"  said  Editn,  with 
white,  quivering  lips.  "  If  they  had  laid  it  in  my  bosom 
as  soon  as  it  was  born,  I  would  never  have  been  so  ill,  and 
the  baby  would  not  have  died.  If — if — " 

She  held  back  what  she  was  about  saying,  shutting  hei 
lips  tightly.  Her  face  remained  very  pale  and  strangely 
igitated.  Nothing  more  was  then  said. 

A  day  or  two  afterward,  Edith  asked  her  mother,  with 
an  abruptness  that  sent  the  color  to  her  face, "  Where  was 
my  baby  buried  ?" 

"  In  our  lot  at  Fairview,"  was  replied,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  on  that  very  day,  regardless 
of  a  heavy  rain  that  was  falling,  went  out  to  the  cem 
etery  alone,  and  searched  in  the  family  lot  for  the 
little  mound  that  covered  her  baby — searched,  but  did 
not  find  it.  She  came  back  so  changed  in  appearance 
fliat  when  her  mother  saw  her  she  exclaimed, 

"  Why,  Edith  !     Are  you  sick  ?" 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  my  baby's  grave  and  cannoi 
find  it,"  she  answered.  "There  is  something  wrong, 
mother.  What  was  done  with  my  baby  ?  I  must  know." 
she  caught  her  mother's  wrists  with  both  of  her 


62  CAST  ADRIFT. 

hands  in  a  tight  grip,  and  sent  searching  glances  down 
through  her  eyes. 

"  Your  baby  is  dead,"  returned  Mrs.  Dinneford,  speak 
ing  slowly  and  with  a  hard  deliberation.  "As  for  its 
grave — well,  if  you  will  drag  up  the  miserable  past,  know 
that  in  my  anger  at  your  wretched  mesalliance  I  rejected 
even  the  dead  body  of  your  miserable  husband's  child, 
and  would  not  even  suffer  it  to  lie  in  our  family 
ground.  You  know  how  bitterly  I  was  disappointed,  and 
I  am  not  one  of  the  kind  that  forgets  or  forgives  easily. 
I  may  have  been  wrong,  but  it  is  too  late  now,  and  the 
past  may  as  well  be  covered  out  of  sight." 

"Where,  then,  was  my  baby  buried?"  asked  Edith, 
with  a  calm  resolution  of  manner  that  was  not  to  be 
denied. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  did  not  care  at  the  time,  and  never 
asked." 

"Who  can  tell  me?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Who  took  my  baby  to  nurse  ?" 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  woman's  name.  All  I  know  £ 
that  she  is  dead.  When  the  child  died,  I  sent  her  money, 
and  told  her  to  bury  it  decently." 

"  Where  did  she  live?" 

"  I  never  knew  precisely.    Somewhere  down  town." 

"Who  brought  her  here?  who  recommended  her?" 
said  Edith,  pushing  her  inquiries  rapidly. 

"  I  have  forgotten  that  also,"  replied  Mrs.  Ddnneford, 
maintaining  her  coldness  of  manner. 

"  My  nurse,  I  presume,"  said  Edith.    « 1  have  a  faint 


CAST  ADRIFT.  03 

recollection  of  her— a  dark  little  woman  with  black  eyes 
whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  What  was  her  name  ?" 

"Bodine,"  answered  Mrs.  Dinneford,  without  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?" 

"She  went  to  Havana  with  a  Cuban  lady  several 
manths  ago." 

"  Do  you  know  the  lady's  name  ?" 

"  It  was  Casteline,  I  think." 

Edith  questioned  no  further.  The  mother  and  daugh 
ter  were  still  sitting  together,  both  deeply  absorbed  in 
thought,  when  a  servant  opened  the  door  and  said  to  Mrs. 
Dinneford, 

"  A  lady  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  Didn't  she  give  you  her  card  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Nor  send  up  her  name  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Go  down  and  ask  her  name." 

The  servant  left  the  room.     On  returning,  she  said, 

"  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Bray." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  turned  her  face  quickly,  but  not  111 
time  to  prevent  Edith  from  seeing  by  its  expression  that 
she  knew  her  visitor,  and  that  her  call  was  felt  to  be  an 
unwelcome  one.  She  went  from  the  room  without  speak 
ing.  On  entering  the  parlor,  Mrs.  Dinneford  said,  in  a 
low,  hurried  voice, 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  come  here,  Mrs.  Bray.  If  you 
wish  to  see  me  send  me  word,  and  I  will  call  on  you,  but 
you  must  on  no  account  come  here." 


S4  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Why  ?    Is  anything  wrong  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"  Edith  isn't  satisfied  about  the  baby,  has  been  out  to 
Fairview  looking  for  its  grave,  wants  to  know  who  her 
nurse  was." 

"  What  did  you  tell  her?" 

"  I  said  that  your  name  was  Mrs.  Bod;ne,  and  that  you 
had  gone  to  Cuba." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  know  me  ?" 

"  Can't  tell ;  wouldn't  like  to  run  the  risk  of  her  seeing 
you  here.  Pull  down  your  veil.  There !  close.  She  said» 
a  little  while  ago,  that  she  had  a  faint  recollection  of 
you  as  a  dark  little  woman  with  black  eyes  whom  she 
had  never  seen  before." 

"  Indeed !"  and  Mrs.  Bray  gathered  her  veil  close  about 
her  face. 

"The  baby  isn't  living?"  Mrs.  Dinneford  asked  the 
question  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  it  can't  be !    Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  it  day  before  yesterday." 

"You,  did!     Where?" 

"  On  the  street,  in  the  arms  of  a  beggar-woman." 

"  You  are  deceiving  me !"  Mrs.  Dinneford  spoke  with 
a  throb  of  anger  in  her  voice. 

"  As  I  live,  no !  Poor  little  thing !  half  starved  and 
half  frozen.  It  'most  made  me  sick." 

"It's  impossible!  You  could  not  know  that  it  was 
Edith's  baby." 


(SAST  ADRIFT.  65 

"  I  do  know/'  replied  Mrs.  Bray,  in  a  voice  that  left  no 
doubt  on  Mrs.  Dinneford's  mind. 

"Was  the  woman  the  same  to  whom  we  gave  the 
!>aby?" 

"  No ;  she  got  rid  of  it  in  less  than  a  month." 

"  What  did  she  do  with  it?" 

"  Sold  it  for  five  dollars,  after  she  had  spent  all  the 
money  she  received  from  you  in  drink  and  lottery- 
policies." 

"  Sold  it  for  five  dollars !" 

"  Yes,  to  two  beggar-women,  who  use  it  every  day,  one 
in  the  morning  and  the  other  in  the  afternoon,  and  get 
drunk  on  the  money  they  receive,  lying  all  night  in  some 
miserable  den." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"  What  becomes  of  the  baby  when  they  are  not  using 
it?"  she  asked. 

"  They  pay  a  woman  a  dollar  a  week  to  take  care  of  it 
at  night." 

"  Do  you  know  where  this  woman  lives  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Were  you  ever  there  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  kind  of  a  place  is  it?" 

"  Worse  than  a  dog-kennel." 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  demanded  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford,  with  repressed  excitement.  "Why  have  you  so 
kept  on  the  track  of  this  baby,  when  you  knew  I  wished 
it  lost  sight  of?" 

"  I  had  my  own  reasons,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray.     "  One 

6*  E 


66  CAST  ADRIFT. 

doesn't  know  \\hat  may  come  of  an  affair  like  this,  ano 
it's  safe  to  keep  well  up  with  it." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  bit  her  lips  till  the  blood  aim  Dst  came 
through.  A  faint  rustle  of  garments  in  the  hall  caused 
her  to  start.  An  expression  of  alarm  crossed  her  face. 

"Go  now,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  to  her  visitor ;  " I  will 
call  and  see  you  this  afternoon." 

Mrs.  Bray  quietly  arose,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  I  shall 
expect  you,"  and  went  away. 

There  was  a  menace  in  her  tone  as  she  said,  "  I  shall 
expect  you,"  that  did  not  escape  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Dinno- 
ford. 

Edith  was  in  the  hall,  at  some  distance  from  the  parlor 
door.  Mrs.  Bray  had  to  pass  her  as  she  went  out.  Edith 
looked  at  her  intently. 

"Who  is  that  woman?"  she  asked,  confronting  her 
mother,  after  the  visitor  was  gone. 

"  If  you  ask  the  question  in  a  proper  manner,  I  shall 
have  no  objection  to  answer,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with  a 
dignified  and  slightly  offended  air ;  "  but  my  daughter  is 
assuming  rather  too  much." 

"  Mrs.  Bray,  the  servant  said." 

«  No,  Mrs.  Gray." 

"  I  understood  her  to  say  Mrs.  Bray." 

"  I  can't  help  what  you  understood."  The  mother  spoke 
with  some  asperity  of  manner.  "  She  calls  herself  Gray, 
but  you  can  have  it  anything  you  please ;  it  won  t  change 
her  identity." 

"What  did  she  want?" 

*  To  see  me." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  67 

"  I  know."  Edith  was  turning  away  with  an  expres- 
iion  on  her  face  that  Mrs.  Dinneford  did  not  like,  so  she 
said, 

"  She  is  in  trouble,  and  wants  me  to  help  her,  if  you 
must  know.  She  used  to  be  a  dressmaker,  and  worked 
for  me  before  you  were  born ;  she  got  married,  and  then 
her  troubles  began.  Now  she  is  a  widow  with  a  house 
full  of  little  children,  and  not  half  bread  enough  to  feed 
them.  I've  helped  her  a  number  of  times  already,  but 
I'm  getting  tired  of  it ;  she  must  look  somewhere  else,  and 
I  told  her  so." 

Edith  turned  from  her  mother  with  an  unsatisfied  man 
ner,  and  went  up  stairs.  Mrs.  Dinneford  was  surprised, 
not  long  afterward,  to  meet  her  at  her  chamber  door, 
dressed  to  go  out.  This  was  something  unusual. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  asked,  not  concealing  her 
surprise. 

"  I  have  a  little  errand  out,"  Edith  replied. 

This  was  not  satisfactory  to  her  mother.  She  asked 
other  questions,  but  Edith  gave  only  evasive  answers. 

On  leaving  the  house,  Edith  walked  quickly,  like  one 
in  earnest  about  something ;  her  veil  was  closely  drawn. 
Only  a  few  blocks  from  where  she  lived  was  the  office  of 
]Jr.  Radcliffe.  Hither  she  directed  her  steps. 

"  Why,  Edith,  child !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  not  con 
cealing  the  surprise  he  felt  at  seeing  her.  "  Nobody  sick, 
I  hope?" 

"  No  one,"  she  answered. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause ;  then  Edith  said,  ab« 
ruptly, 


68  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Doctor,  what  became  of  my  baby?" 

"  It  died,"  answered  Doctor  Radcliffe,  but  not  without 
betraying  some  confusion.  The  question  had  fallen  upon 
him  too  suddenly. 

"  Did  you  see  it  after  it  was  dead  ?"  She  spoke  in  a 
firm  voice,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  after  a  slight  hesitation. 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  that  it  died  ?"  Edith  asked. 

"  I  had  your  mother's  word  for  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  What  was  done  with  my  baby  after  it  was  born  Y9 

"  It  was  given  out  to  nurse." 

"  With  your  consent  ?" 

"  I  did  not  advise  it.  Your  mother  had  her  own  views 
in  the  case.  It  was  something  over  which  I  had  no  con 
trol." 

"  And  you  never  saw  it  after  it  was  taken  away  ?" 

"  Never." 

"And  do  not  really  know  whether  it  be  dead  or 
living?" 

"  Oh,  it's  dead,  of  course,  my  child.  There  is  no  doubt 
of  that,"  said  the  doctor,  with  sudden  earnestness  of 
manner. 

"  Have  you  any  evidence  of  the  fact  ?" 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  much 
feeling,  "it  is  all  wrong.  Why  go  back  over  this  un 
happy  ground  ?  why  torture  yourself  for  nothing  ?  Your 
baby  died  long  ago,  and  is  in  heaven." 

"Would  God  I  could  believe  it!"  she  exclaimed,  in 
strong  agitation.  "  If  it  were  so,  why  is  not  the  evidence 
«et  before  me?  I  question  my  mother;  I  ask  for  th« 


CAST  ADRIFT.  69 

nurse  who  was  with  me  when  my  baby  was  born,  and 
for  the  nurse  to  whom  it  was  given  afterward,  and  am 
told  that  they  are  dead  or  out  of  the  country.  I  ask  for 
my  baby's  grave,  but  it  cannot  be  found.  I  have  searched 
for  it  where  my  mother  told  me  it  was,  but  the  grave  is 
not  there.  Why  all  this  hiding  and  mystery  ?  Doctor, 
you  said  that  my  baby  was  in  heaven,  and  I  answered, 
*  Would  God  it  were  so !'  for  I  saw  a  baby  in  hell  not 
long  ago !" 

The  doctor  was  scared.  He  feared  that  Edith  wag 
losing  her  mind,  she  looked  and  spoke  so  wildly. 

"A  puny,  half-starved,  half-frozen  little  thing,  in  the 
arms  of  a  drunken  beggar,"  she  added.  "And,  doctor, 
an  awful  thought  has  haunted  me  ever  since." 

"  Hush,  hush !"  said  the  doctor,  who  saw  what  was  in 
her  mind.  "  You  must  not  indulge  such  morbid  fancies." 

"  It  is  that  I  may  not  indulge  them  that  I  have  come 
to  you.  I  want  certainty,  Dr.  Radcliffe.  Somebody 
knows  all  about  my  baby.  Who  was  my  nurse  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  her  before  the  night  of  your  baby's  birth, 
and  have  never  seen  her  since.  Your  mother  procured 
her." 

"  Did  you  hear  her  name  ?" 

"No." 

"  And  so  you  cannot  help  me  at  all  ?"  said  Edith,  in  a 
disappointed  voice. 

"  I  cannot,  my  poor  child,"  answered  the  doctor. 

All  the  flush  and  excitement  died  out  of  Edith's  face. 
When  she  arose  to  go,  she  was  pale  and  haggard,  like  one 
psxhaunted  by  pain,  and  her  steps  uneven,  like  the 


70  CAST  ADRIFT. 

of  an  invalid  walking  for  the  first  time.  Dr.  Radcliife 
went  with  her  in  silence  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  said  Edith,  in  a  choking  voice,  as  she 
lingered  a  moment  on  the  steps,  "  can't  you  bring  out  of 
this  frightful  mystery  something  for  my  heart  to  rest 
upon  ?  I  want  the  truth.  Oh,  doctor,  in  pity  help  me  to 
find  the  truth !" 

"I  am  powerless  to  help  you,"  the  doctor  replied. 
"Yotfr  only  hope  lies  in  your  mother.  She  knows  all 
about  it ;  I  do  not." 

And  he  turned  and  left  her  standing  at  the  door. 
Slowly  she  descended  the  steps,  drawing  her  veil  as  she 
did  so  about  her  face,  and  walked  away  more  like  one  in 
a  dream  than  conscious  of  the  tide  of  life  setting  so 
strongly  all  ab>ut  her. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MEANTIME,  obeying  the  unwelcome  summon,  Mrs. 
Dinneford  had  gone  to  see  Mrs.  Bray.  She  found 
her  in  a  small  third-story  room  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
city,  over  a  mile  away  from  her  own  residence.  The 
meeting  between  the  two  women  was  not  over-gracious, 
but  in  keeping  with  their  relations  to  each  other.  Mr». 
Dinneford  was  half  angry  and  impatient ;  Mrs.  Bray  cool 
and  self-possessed. 

"And  now  what  is  it  you  have  to  say?"  asked  the 
former,  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  entered. 

"  The  woman  to  whom  you  gave  that  baby  was  here 
yesterday." 

A  frightened  expression  came  into  Mrs.  Dinneford's 
face.  Mrs.  Bray  watched  her  keenly  as,  with  lips  slightly 
apart,  she  waited  for  what  more  was  to  come. 

"  Unfortunately,  she  met  me  just  as  I  was  at  my  own 
door,  and  so  found  out  my  residence,"  continued  Mrs. 
Bray.  "  I  was  in  hopes  I  should  never  see  her  again. 
We  shall  have  trouble,  I'm  afraid." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  A  bad  woman  who  has  you  in  her  power  can  trouble 
you  in  many  ways,"  answered  Mrs.  Bray. 

"She  did  not  know  my  name — you  assured  me  of  thai, 
It  was  one  of  the  stipulations." 

11 


72  CAST  ADRIFT 

"  She  does  know,  and  your  daughter's  name  also.  And 
she  knows  where  the  baby  is.  She's  deeper  than  I  sup. 
posed.  It's  never  safe  to  trust  such  people ;  they  have  no 
honor." 

Fear  sent  all  the  color  out  of  Mrs.  Dinneford's  face. 

"  What  does  she  want  ?" 

«  Money." 

"  She  was  paid  liberally." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  These  people  have 
no  honor,  as  I  said ;  they  will  get  all  they  can." 

"  How  much  does  she  want  ?" 

"A  hundred  dollars;  and  it  won't  end  there,  I'm 
thinking.  If  she  is  refused,  she  will  go  to  your  house ; 
she  gave  me  that  alternative — would  have  gone  yester 
day,  if  good  luck  had  not  thrown  her  in  my  way.  I 
promised  to  call  on  you  and  see  what  could  be  done." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  actually  groaned  in  her  fear  and  dis 
tress. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  her  yourself?"  coolly  asked 
Mrs.  Bray. 

•'  Oh  dear !  no,  no !"  and  the  lady  put  up  her  hands  in 
dismay. 

"  It  might  be  best,"  said  her  wily  companion. 

"  No,  no,  no !  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  her !  You 
must  keep  her  away  from  me,"  replied  Mrs.  Dinneford, 
with  increasing  agitation. 

"  I  cannot  keep  her  away  without  satisfying  her  demands, 
ff  you  were  to  see  her  yourself,  you  would  know  just 
what  her  demands  were.  If  you  do  not  see  her,  you  will 
»nly  have  my  word  for  it,  and  I  am  left  open  to  misap. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  7o 

prehension,  if  not  worse.     I  don't  like  to  be  placed  in 
Buch  a  position." 

And  Mrs.  Bray  put  on  a  dignified,  half-injured  manner. 

"  It's  a  wretched  business  in  every  way,"  she  added, 
"  and  I'm  sorry  that  I  ever  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 
It's  something  dreadful,  as  I  told  you  at  the  time,  to  cast 
a  helpless  baby  adrift  in  such  a  way.  Poor  little  soul ! 
I  shall  never  feel  right  about  it." 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there ;"  and  Mrs.  Dinneford 
waved  her  hand  impatiently.  "  The  thing  now  in  hand 
is  to  deal  with  this  woman." 

"  Yes,  that's  it — and  as  I  said  just  now,  I  would  rathe* 
have  you  deal  with  her  yourself;  you  may  be  able  to  do 
it  better  than  I  can." 

"  It's  no  use  to  talk,  Mrs.  Bray.  I  will  not  see  the 
woman." 

"  Very  well ;  you  must  be  your  own  judge  in  the  case." 

"  Can't  you  bind  her  up  to  something,  or  get  her  out 
of  the  city  ?  I'd  pay  almost  anything  to  have  her  a 
thousand  miles  away.  See  if  you  can't  induce  her  to  go 
to  New  Orleans.  I'll  pay  her  passage,  and  give  her  a 
hundred  dollars  besides,  if  she'll  go." 

Mrs.  Bray  smiled  a  faint,  sinister  smile : 

"  If  you  could  get  her  off  there,  it  would  be  the  end  oi 
her.  She'd  never  stand  the  fever." 

"  Then  get  her  off,  cost  what  it  may,"  said  Mrs.  Dinne 
ford. 

"  She  will  be  here  in  less  than  half  an  hour."    Mrs. 
Bray  looked  at  the  face  of  a  small  cheap  clock  that  stood 
in  the  mantel 
I 


74  CAST  ADRIFT 

"  She  \vill?"  Mrs.  Dinneford  became  uneasy,  and  arose 
from  her  chair. 

«  Yes ;  what  shall  I  say  to  her  ?" 

"  Manage  her  the  best  you  can.  Here  are  thirty  dol 
lars — all  the  money  I  have  with  me.  Give  her  that,  and 
promise  more  if  necessary.  I  will  see  you  again." 

"When?"  asked  Mrs.  Bray. 

"At  any  time  you  desire." 

"Then  you  had  better  come  to-morrow  morning.  I 
shall  not  go  out." 

"  I  will  be  here  at  eleven  o'clock.  Induce  her  if  possi 
ble  to  leave  the  city — to  go  South,  so  that  she  may  never 
come  back." 

"  The  best  I  can  shall  be  done,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray  as 
she  folded  the  bank-bills  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Din 
neford  in  a  fond,  tender  sort  of  way  and  put  them  into 
her  pocket. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  retired,  saying  as  she  did  so, 

••  T  will  be  here  in  the  morning." 

An  instant  change  came  over  the  sallow  face  of  tire 
wiry  little  woman  as  the  form  of  Mrs.  Dinneford  vanished 
through  the  door.  A  veil  seemed  to  fall  away  from  it.  All 
its  virtuous  sobriety  was  gone,  and  a  smile  of  evil  satisfac 
tion  curved  about  her  lips  and  danced  in  her  keen  black 
eyes.  She  stood  still,  listening  to  the  retiring  steps  of  her 
visitor,  until  she  heard  the  street  door  shut.  Then,  with 
A  quick,  cat-like  step,  she  crossed  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room,  and  pushed  open  a  door  that  led  to  an  adjoin 
ing  chamber.  A  woman  came  forward  to  meet  her.  This 
i  oman  was  taller  and  stouter  than  Mrs.  Bray,  and  had  a 


CAST  ADRIFT.  7C 


soft,  sensual  face,  but  a  resolute  mouth,  the  under  j 
slightly  protruding.  Her  eyes  were  small  and  close  to 
gether,  and  had  that  peculiar  wily  and  alert  expression 
you  sometimes  see,  making  you  think  of  a  serpent's  eyes. 
She  was  dressed  in  common  finery  and  adorned  by  cheap 
jewelry. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Pinky  Swett?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bray,  in  a  voice  of  exultation.  "  Got  her  all  right, 
haven't  I  ?" 

"  Well,  you  have  !"  answered  the  woman,  shaking  all 
over  with  unrestrained  laughter.  "The  fattest  pigeon 
I've  happened  to  see  for  a  month  of  Sundays.  Is  she 
very  rich  ?" 

"  Her  husband  is,  and  that's  all  the  same.  And  now, 
Pinky  "  —  Mrs.  Bray  assumed  a  mock  gravity  of  tone  and 
manner  —  "you  know  your  fate  —  New  Orleans  and  the 
yellow  fever.  You  must  pack  right  off.  Passage  free 
and  a  hundred  dollars  for  funeral  expenses.  Nice  wet 
graves  down  there  —  keep  off  the  fire  ;"  and  she  gave  a 
low  chuckle. 

"Oh  yes;  all  settled.  When  does  the  next  steamer 
sail  ?"  and  Pinky  almost  screamed  with  merriment.  She 
had  been  drinking. 

"  H-u-s-h  !  h-u-s-h  !  None  of  that  here,  Pinky.  The 
people  down  stairs  are  good  Methodists,  and  think  me  a 
Baint.'-' 

"You  a  saint?  Qh  dear!"  and  she  shook  with  re 
pressed  enjoyment. 

After  this  the  two  women  grew  serious,  and  put  theii 
heads  together  for  busineis. 


76  CAST  ADRIFT. 

•*  Who  is  this  woman,  Fan  ?  What's  her  name,  and 
where  does  she  liye?"  asked  Pinky  Swett. 

"  That's  my  secret,  Pinky,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray,  "  and  I 
can't  let  it  go ;  it  wouldn't  be  safe.  You  get  a  little  off 
the  handle  sometimes,  and  don't  know  what  you  say — 
might  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  Sally  Long  took  the 
baby  away,  and  she  died  two  months  ago;  so  I'm  the 
only  one  now  in  the  secret.  All  I  want  of  you  is  to  keep 
track  of  the  baby.'  Here  is  a  five-dollar  bill;  I  can't 
trust  you  with  more  at  a  time.  I  know  your  weakness, 
Pinky;"  and  she  touched  her  under  the  chin  in  a  fa 
miliar,  patronizing  way. 

Pinky  wasn't  satisfied  with  this,  and  growled  a  little, 
just  showing  her  teeth  like  an  unquiet  dog. 

"  Give  me  ten,"  she  said ;  "  the  woman  gave  you  thirty. 
I  heard  her  say  so.  And  she's  going  to  bring  you  seventy 
to-morrow." 

"  You'll  only  waste  it,  Pinky,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Bray. 
"  It  will  all  be  gone  before  morning." 

"  Fan,"  said  the  woman,  leaning  toward  Mrs.  Bray  and 
speaking  in  a  low,  confidential  tone, "  I  dreamed  of  a  cow 
last  night,  and  that's  good  luck,  you  know.  Tom  Oaka 
made  a  splendid  hit  last  Saturday — drew  twenty  dollars 
— and  Sue  Minty  got  ten.  They're  all  buzzing  about  it 
down  in  our  street,  and  going  to  Sam  McFaddon's  office 
in  a  stream." 

"  Do  they  have  good  luck  at  Sam  jMcFaddon's  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bray,  with  considerable  interest  in  her  manner. 

"  It's  the  luckiest  place  that  I  know.  Never  dreamed 
»f  a  cow  or  a  hen  that  I  didn't  make  a  hit,  and  I  d teamed 


CAST  ADRIFT.  77 

of  a  cow  last  night.  She  was  giving  such  a  splendid  pail 
of  milk,  full  to  the  brim,  just  as  old  Spot  and  Brindle 
used  to  give.  You  remember  our  Spot  and  Brindle, 
Fan?" 

<%Oh  yes."  There  was  a  falling  inflection  in  Mrs 
Bray's  voice,  as  if  the  reference  had  sent  her  thoughts 
away  back  to  other  and  more  innocent  days. 

The  two  women  sat  silent  for  some  moments  after  that; 
and  when  Pinky  spoke,  which  she  did  first,  it  was  in 
lower  and  softer  tones : 

"I  don't  like  to  think  much  about  them  old  times, 
Fan ;  do  you  ?  I  might  have  done  better.  But  it's  no 
use  grizzling  about  it  now.  What's  done's  done,  and 
can't  be  helped.  Water  doesn't  run  up  hill  again  after 
it's  once  run  down.  I've  got  going,  and  can't  stop,  you 
see.  There's  nothing  to  catch  at  that  won't  break  as  soon 
as  you  touch  it.  So  I  mean  to  be  jolly  as  I  move  along." 

"  Laughing  is  better  than  crying  at  any  time,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bray ;  "  here  are  five  more ;"  and  she  handed  Pinky 
Swett  another  bank-bill.  "I'm  going  to  try  my  luck. 
Put  half  a  dollar  on  ten  different  rows,  and  we'll  go  shares 
on  what  is  drawn.  I  dreamed  the  other  night  that  I  saw 
a  flock  of  sheep,  and  that's  good  luck,  isn't  it  ?" 

Pinky  thrust  her  hand  into  her  pocket  and  drew  out  a 
worn  and  soiled  dream-book. 

"  A  flock  of  sheep ;  let  me  see ;"  and  she  commenced 
turning  over  the  leaves.  "Sheep;  here  it  is:  'To  see 
them  is  a  sign  of  sorrow — 11,  20,  40,  48.  To  be  sur 
rounded  by  many  sheep  denotes  good  luck — 2,  11,  55.' 
That's  your  row ;  put  down  2,  3 1 ,  55.  We'll  try  that 


78  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Next  put  down  4,  11,  44 — that's  the  lucky  row  when  you 
dream  of  a  cow." 

As  Pinky  leaned  toward  her  friend  she  dropped  hei 
parasol. 

"  That's  for  luck,  maybe,"  she  said,  with  a  brightening 
face.  "  Let's  see  what  it  says  about  a  parasol ;"  and  she 
turned  over  her  d-eam-book. 

"  For  a  maiden  to  dream  she  loses  her  parasol  shows  that 
her  sweetheart  is  false  and  will  never  marry  her — 5,  51, 56." 

"  But  you  didn't  dream  about  a  parasol,  Pinky." 

"  That's  no  matter ;  it's  just  as  good  as  a  dream.  5,  51, 
56  is  the  row.  Put  that  down  for  the  second,  Fan." 

As  Mrs.  Bray  was  writing  out  these  numbers  the  clock 
on  the  mantel  struck  five. 

"8,  12,  60,"  said  Pinky,  turning  to  the  clock;  "that's 
the  clock  row." 

And  Mrs.  Bray  put  down  these  figures  also. 

"  That's  three  rows,"  said  Pinky,  "  and  we  want  ten." 
She  arose,  as  she  spoke,  and  going  to  the  front  window, 
looked  down  upon  the  street. 

"  There's  an  organ-grinder ;  it's  the  first  thing  I  saw*;" 
and  she  came  back  fingering  the  leaves  of  her  dream- 
book.  "  Put  down  40,  50,  26." 

Mrs.  Bray  wrote  the  numbers  on  her  slip  of  paper. 

"  It's  November ;  let's  find  the  November  row."  Pinky 
consulted  her  book  again.  "Signifies  you  will  have 
trouble  through  life— 7,  9,  63.  That's  true  as  preaching ; 
I  was  born  in  November,  and  I've  had  it  all  trouble 
How  many  rows  does  that  make  ?" 

•«  Five." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  79 

« Then  we  will  cut  cards  for  the  rest ;"  and  Pinky  drew 
a  soiled  pack  from  her  pocket,  shuffled  the  cards  and  let 
her  friend  cut  them. 

"  Ten  of  diamonds ;"  she  referred  to  the  dream -book. 
"  10,  13,  31 ;  put  that  down." 

The  cards  were  shuffled  and  cut  again. 

"Six  of  clubs— 6,35,  39." 

Again  they  were  cut  and  shuffled.  This  time  the 
knave  of  clubs  was  turned  up. 

"That's  17,  19,  28,"  said  Pinky,  reading  from  her 
book. 

The  next  cut  gave  the  ace  of  clubs,  and  the  policy- 
numbers  were  18,  63,  75. 

"  Once  more,  and  the  ten  rows  will  be  full ;"  and  the 
cards  were  cut  again. 

"Five  of  hearts — 5,  12,  60;"  and  the  ten  rows  were 
complete. 

"  There's  luck  there,  Fan ;  sure  to  make  a  hit,"  said 
Pinky,  with  almost  childish  confidence,  as  she  gazed  at 
the  ten  rows  of  figures.  "  One  of  'em  can't  help  coming 
out  right,  and  that  would  be  fifty  dollars — twenty-five 
for  me  and  twenty-five  for  you ;  two  rows  would  give  a 
hundred  dollars,  and  the  whole  ten  a  thousand.  Think 
of  that,  Fan !  five  hundred  dollars  apiece." 

"It  would  break  Sam  McFaddon,  I'm  afraid,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Bray. 

"  Sam's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  returned  Pinky. 

"He  hasn't?" 

"No." 

"Who  has,  then?" 


80  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  His  backer." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  found  it  all  out — I  know  how  it's  done.  Sam's 
got  a  backer — a  man  that  puts  up  the  money.  Sam  only 
jells  for  his  backer.  When  there's  a  hit,  the  backer  pays." 

"  Who's  Sam's  backer,  as  you  call  him  ?" 

"  Couldn't  get  him  to  tell ;  tried  him  hard,  but  he  was 
close  as  an  oyster.  Drives  in  the  Park  and  wears  a  two 
thousand  dollar  diamond  pin ;  he  let  that  out.  So  he's 
good  for  the  hits.  Sam  always  puts  the  money  down, 
fair  and  square." 

"  Very  well ;  you  get  the  policy,  and  do  it  right  off, 
Pinky,  or  the  money'll  slip  through  your  fingers." 

"  All  right,"  answered  Pinky  as  she  folded  the  slip  of 
paper  containing  the  lucky  rows.  "Never  you  fear, 
I'll  be  at  Sam  McFaddon's  in  ten  minutes  after  I  leave 
here." 

"  And  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Bray,  "  to  look  after  the 
baby  to-night,  and  see  that  it  doesn't  perish  with  cold ; 
the  air's  getting  sharp." 

"  It  ought  to  have  something  warmer  than  cotton  rags 
on  its  poor  little  body,"  returned  Pinky.  "  Can't  you  get 
it  some  flannel  ?  It  will  die  if  you  don't." 

"  I  sent  it  a  warm  petticoat  last  week,"  said  Mrs.  Bray. 

"You  did?" 

"  Yes ;  I  bought  one  at  a  Jew  shop,  and  had  it  sent  tc 
;he  woman." 

"  Was  it  a  nice  warm  one  ?" 

"Yes." 

Pinky  drew  a  sigh.    "  I  saw  the  poor  baby  last  night; 


CAST  ADEIFT.  81 

hadn't  anything  on  but  dirty  cotton  rags.  It  was  lying 
asleep  in  a  cold  cellar  on  a  little  heap  of  straw.  The 
woman  had  given  it  something,  I  guess,  by  the  way  it 
slept.  The  petticoat  had  gone,  most  likely,  to  Sam  Mc- 
Faddon's.  She  spends  everything  she  can  lay  her  hands 
on  in  policies  and  whisky." 

"  She's  paid  a  dollar  a  week  for  taking  care  of  the  baby 
at  night  and  on  Sundays,"  said  Mrs.  Bray. 

"  It  wouldn't  help  the  baby  any  if  she  got  ten  dollars,'* 
returned  Pinky.  "  It  ought  to  be  taken  away  from  her." 

"  But  who's  to  do  that  ?  Sally  Long  sold  it  to  the  two 
beggar  women,  and  they  board  it  out.  I  have  no  right 
to  interfere ;  they  own  the  baby,  and  can  do  as  they  please 
with  it." 

"  It  could  be  got  to  the  almshouse,"  said  Pinky ;  "  it 
would  be  a  thousand  times  better  off." 

"  It  mustn't  go  to  the  almshouse,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray , 
"  I  might  lose  track  of  it,  and  that  would  never  do." 

"  You'll  lose  track  of  it  for  good  and  all  before  long, 
if  you  don't  get  it  out  of  them  women's  hands.  No  baby 
can  hold  out  being  begged  with  long ;  it's  too  hard  on  the 
little  things.  For  you  know  how  it  is,  Fan ;  they  must 
keep  'em  half  starved  and  as  sick  as  they  will  bear  with 
out  dying  right  off,  so  as  to  make  'em  look  pitiful.  You 
can't  do  much  at  begging  with  a  fat,  hearty-looking  baby." 

"What's  to  be  done  about  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Bray.  "I 
don't  want  that  baby  to  die." 

"Would  its  mother  know  it  if  she  saw  it?"  asked 
Pinky. 

"  No ;  for  she  never  set  eyes  on  it." 
P 


82  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Then,  if  it  dies,  get  another  baby,  and  keep  track  of 
that.  You  can  steal  one  from  a  drunken  mother  any 
night  in  the  week.  I'll  do  it  for  you.  One  baby  is  as 
good  as  an.ther." 

"  It  will  be  safer  to  have  the  real  one,"  replied  Mrs. 
Bray.  "And  now,  Pinky,  that  you  have  put  this  thing 
into  my  head,  I  guess  I'll  commission  you  to  get  the  baby 
away  from  that  woman." 

"All  right!" 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  with  it  ?    I  can't  have  it  here." 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  But  that's  easily  managed,  if 
your're  willing  to  pay  for  it." 

"Pay  for  it?" 

"  Yes ;  if  it  isn't  begged  with,  and  made  to  pay  its  way 
and  earn  something  into  the  bargain,  it's  got  to  be  a  dead 
weight  on  somebody.  So  you  see  how  it  is,  Fan.  Now, 
if  you'll  take  a  fool's  advice,  you'll  let  it  go  to  the  alms- 
house,  or  let  it  alone  to  die  and  get  out  of  its  misery  as  soon 
as  possible.  You  can  find  another  baby  that  will  do  just 
as  well,  if  you  should  ever  need  one." 

"  How  much  would  it  cost,  do  you  think,  to  hare  it 
boarded  with  some  one  who  wouldn't  abuse  it?  She  might 
beg  with  it  herself,  or  hire  it  out  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  I  guess  it  would  stand  that." 

"  Beggars  don't  belong  to  the  merciful  kind,"  answered 
Pinky;  "there's  no  trusting  any  of  them.  A  baby  in 
their  hands  is  never  safe.  I've  seen  'em  brought  in  at 
night  more  dead  than  alive,  and  tossed  on  a  dirty  rag- 
heap  to  die  before  morning.  I'm  always  glad  when 
they're  out  of  their  misery,  poor  things!  The  fact  is. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  83 

Fan,  if  you  expect  that  baby  to  live,  you've  got  to  take 
it  clean  out  of  the  hands  of  beggars." 

"What  could  I  get  it  boarded  for  outright?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bray. 

"  For  'most  anything,  'cording  to  how  it's  done.  But 
why  not,  while  you're  about  it,  bleed  the  old  lady,  ita 
grandmother,  a  little  deeper,  and  take  a  few  drops  for  the 
baby?" 

"  Guess  you're  kind  o'  right  about  that,  Fan ;  anyhow, 
we'll  make  a  start  on  it.  You  find  another  place  for  the 
brat." 

"'Greed;  when  shall  I  do  it?" 

"  The  sooner,  the  better.  It  might  die  of  cold  any  night 
in  that  horrible  den.  Ugh  !" 

"  I've  been  in  worse  places.  Bedlow  street  is  full  of 
them,  and  so  is  Briar  street  and  Dirty  alley.  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it." 

"Maybe  not,  and  maybe  I  don't  care  to  know.  At 
present  I  want  to  settle  about  this  baby.  You'll  find 
another  place  for  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  then  steal  it  from  the  woman  who  has  it  now  ?" 

"Yes;  no  trouble  in  the  world.  She's  drunk  every 
night,"  answered  Pinky  Swett,  rising  to  go. 

"You'll  see  me  to-morrow?"  said  Mrs.  Bray. 

"Oh  yes." 

"  And  you  won't  forget  about  the  policies  ?" 

"  Not  I.  We  shall  make  a  grand  hit,  or  I'm  a  fool, 
Day-day!"  Pinky  waved  her  hand  gayly,  and  then  re 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  COLD,  drizzling  rain  was  beginning  to  fall  "when 
Pinky  Swett  emerged  from   the  house.     Twilight 
was  gathering  drearily.    She  drew  her  thin  shawl  closely, 
and  shivered  as  the  east  wind  struck  her  with  a  chill. 

A  hurried  walk  of  five  or  ten  minutes  brought  her  to  a 
part  of  the  town  as  little  known  to  its  citizens  generally 
as  if  it  were  in  the  centre  of  Africa — a  part  of  the  town 
where  vice,  crime,  drunkenness  and  beggary  herd  to 
gether  in  the  closest  and  most  shameless  contact ;  where 
men  and  women,  living  in  all  foulness,  and  more  like 
wild  beasts  than  human  beings,  prey  greedily  upon  each 
other,  hurting,  depraving  and  marring  God's  image  in 
all  over  whom  they  can  get  power  or  influence — a  very 
hell  upon  the  earth  ! — a  part  of  the  town  where  theft  and 
robbery  and  murder  are  plotted,  and  from  which  prisons 
and  almshouses  draw  their  chief  population. 

That  such  a  herding  together,  almost  in  the  centre  of  a 
great  Christian  city,  of  the  utterly  vicious  and  degraded, 
should  be  permitted,  when  every  day's  police  and  crimi 
nal  records  give  warning  of  its  cost  and  danger,  is  a  mar 
vel  and  a  reproach.  Almost  every  other  house,  in  por 
tions  of  this  locality,  is  a  dram-shop,  where  the  vilest 
liquors  are  sold.  Policy-offices,  doing  business  in  direct 
violation  of  law,  are  in  every  street  and  block,  their 

84 


CAST  ADRIFT.  B& 

work  of  plunder  and  demoralization  going  on  >;ith  open 
doors  and  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  police.  Every  one  of 
them  is  known  to  these  officers.  But  arrest  is  useless.  A 
hidden  and  malign  influence,  more  potent  than  justice, 
has  power  to  protect  the  traffic  and  hold  the  guilty 
offenders  harmless.  Conviction  is  rarely,  if  ever, 
reached. 

The  poor  wretches,  depraved  and  plundered  through 
drink  and  policy-gambling,  are  driven  into  crime.  They 
rob  and  steal  and  debase  themselves  for  money  with 
which  to  buy  rum  and  policies,  and  sooner  or  later  the 
prison  or  death  removes  the  greater  number  of  them  from 
their  vile  companions.  But  drifting  toward  this  fatal  lo 
cality  under  the  attraction  of  affinity,  or  lured  thither  by 
harpies  in  search  of  new  supplies  of  human  victims  to 
repair  the  frightful  waste  perpetually  made,  the  region 
keeps  up  its  dense  population,  and  the  work  of  destroy 
ing  human  souls  goes  on.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  con 
template.  Thousands  of  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls, 
once  innocent  as  the  babes  upon  whom  Christ  laid  his 
hand  in  blessing,  are  drawn  into  this  whirlpool  of  evil 
every  year,  and  few  come  out  except  by  the  way  of  prison 
or  death. 

It  was  toward  this  locality  that  Pinky  Swett  directed 
her  feet  after  parting  with  Mrs.  Bray.  Darkness  was  be 
ginning  to  settle  down  as  she  turned  off  from  one  of  the 
most  populous  streets,  crowded  at  the  time  by  citizens  on 
their  way  to  quiet  and  comfortable  homes,  few  if  any  of 
whom  had  ever  turned  aside  to  look  upon  and  get  know 
ledge  of  the  world  of  crime  and  wretchedness  so  near  at 


86  CAST  ADRIFT. 

hand,  but  girdled  in  and  concealed  from  common  ol> 
aerval  ion. 

Do  ivn  a  narrow  street  she  turned  from  the  great  thor 
oughfare,  walking  with  quick  steps,  and  shivering  a  little 
as  the  penetrating  east  wind  sent  a  chill  of  dampness 
through  the  thin  shawl  she  drew  closer  and  closer  about 
her  shoulders.  Nothing  could  be  in  stronger  contrast 
than  the  rows  of  handsome  dwellings  and  stores  that 
lined  the  streets  through  which  she  had  just  passed,  and 
the  forlorn,  rickety,  unsightly  and  tumble-down  houses 
amid  which  she  now  found  herself. 

Pinky  had  gone  only  a  little  way  when  the  sharp  cries 
of  a  child  cut  the  air  suddenly,  the  shrill,  angry  voice  of 
a  woman  and  the  rapid  fall  of  lashes  mingled  with  the 
cries.  The  child  begged  for  mercy  in  tones  of  agony, 
but  the  loud  voice,  uttering  curses  and  imprecations,  and 
the  cruel  blows,  ceased  not.  Pinky  stopped  and  shivered. 
She  felt  the  pain  of  these  blows,  in  her  quickly-aroused 
sympathy,  almost  as  much  as  if  they  had  been  falling  on 
her  own  person.  Opposite  to  where  she  had  paused  was 
i  one-story  frame  house,  or  enclosed  shed,  as  unsightly 
without  as  a  pig-pen,  and  almost  as  filthy  within.  It  con 
tained  ,wo  small  rooms  with  very  low  ceilings.  The  only 
things  in  these  rooms  that  could  be  called  furniture  were 
an  old  bench,  two  chairs  from  which  the  backs  had  been 
broken,  a  tin  cup  black  with  smoke  and  dirt,  two  or  three 
tin  pans  in  the  same  condition,  some  broken  crockery 
and  an  iron  skillet.  Pinky  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
shivering,  as  we  have  said.  She  knew  what  the  blows 
and  the  curses  and  the  cries  of  pain  meant;  she  had 


CAST  ADRIFT.  87 

heard  them  before.  A  depraved  and  drunken  woman 
and  a  child  ten  years  old,  who  might  or  might  not  be  her 
daughter,  lived  there.  The  child  was  sent  out  every  day 
to  beg  or  steal,  and  if  she  failed  to  bring  home  a  certain 
gum  of  money,  was  cruelly  beaten  by  the  woman.  Al 
most  every  day  the  poor  child  was  cut  with  lashes,  often 
on  the  bare  flesh  ;  almost  every  day  her  shrieks  rang  out 
from  the  miserable  hovel.  But  there  was  no  one  to  inter 
fere,  no  one  to  save  her  from  the  smarting  blows,  no  one 
to  care  what  she  suffered. 

Pinky  Swett  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  had  often 
noticed  the  ragged  child,  with  her  pale,  starved  face  and 
large,  wistful  eyes,  passing  in  and  out  of  this  miserable 
woman's  den,  sometimes  going  to  the  liquor-shops  and 
sometimes  to  the  nearest  policy-office  to  spend  for  her 
mother,  if  such  the  woman  really  was,  the  money  she 
had  gained  by  begging. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  as  a  deep  wail  and  a  more 
piteous  cry  for  mercy  smote  upon  her  ears,  Pinky  sprang 
across  the  street  and  into  the  hovel.  The  sight  that  met 
her  eyes  left  no  hesitation  in  her  mind.  Holding  up  with 
one  strong  arm  the  naked  body  of  the  poor  child — she 
had  drawn  the  clothes  over  her  head — the  infuriated 
woman  was  raining  down  blows  from  a  short  piece  of  rat 
tan  upon  the  quivering  flesh,  already  covered  with  welts 
and  bruises. 

"  Devil !"  cried  Pinky  as  she  rushed  upon  this  fiend  in 
human  shape  and  snatched  the  little  girl  from  her  arm. 
•  Do  you  want  to  kill  the  child  ?" 

She  might  almost  as  well  have   assaulted  a  tigreag. 


88  CAST  ADRIFT 

The  woman  was  larger,  stronger,  more  desperate  and 
more  thoroughly  given  over  to  evil  passions  than  she 
To  thwart  her  in  anything  was  to  rouse  her  into  a  fury. 
A  moment  she  stood  in  surprise  and  bewilderment;  in  the 
next,  and  ere  Pinky  had  time  to  put  herself  on  guard, 
she  had  sprung  upon  her  with  a  passionate  cry  that 
sounded  more  like  that  of  a  wild  beast  than  anything 
human.  Clutching  her  by  the  throat  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  tearing  the  child  from  her  grasp,  she  threvt 
the  frightened  little  thing  across  the  room. 

"  Devil,  ha !"  screamed  the  woman ;  "  devil !"  and  she 
tightened  her  grasp  on  Pinky's  throat,  at  the  same  time 
striking  her  in  the  face  with  her  clenched  fist. 

Like  a  war-horse  that  snuffs  the  battle  afar  off  and 
rushes  to  the  conflict,  so  rushed  the  inhabitants  of  that 
foul  neighborhood  to  the  spot  from  whence  had  come  to 
their  ears  the  familiar  and  not  unwelcome  sound  of  strife. 
Even  before  Pinky  had  time  to  shake  off  her  assailant, 
the  door  of  the  hovel  was  darkened  by  a  screen  of  eager 
faces.  And  such  faces!  How  little  of  God's  image  re 
mained  in  them  to  tell  of  their  divine  origination! — 
bloated  and  scarred,  ashen  pale  and  wasted,  hollow-eyed 
and  red-eyed,  disease  looking  out  from  all,  yet  all  lighted 
up  with  the  keenest  interest  and  expectancy. 

Outside,  the  crowd  swelled  with  a  marvelous  rapidity. 
Every  cellar  and  room  and  garret,  every  little  alley  aud 
h  \dden  rookery,  "hawk's  nest  "and  "wren's  nest,"  poured 
out  its  unseemly  denizens,  white  and  black,  old  and 
young,  male  and  female,  the  child  of  three  years  old, 
keen,  alert  and  self-protective,  running  to  see  the  "  row' 


CAST  ADRIFT.  81 

sicta  by  side  with  the  toothless  crone  of  seventy,  or  mosi 
likely  passing  her  on  the  way.  Thieves,  beggars,  pick 
pockets,  vile  women,  rag-pickers  and  the  like,  with  the 
harpies  who  prey  upon  them,  all  were  there  to  enjoy  the 
show 

Within,  a  desperate  fight  was  going  on  between  Pinky 
Swett  and  the  woman  from  whose  hands  she  had  attempted 
to  rescue  the  child — a  fight  in  which  Pinky  was  getting 
the  worst  of  it.  One  garment  after  another  was  torn 
from  her  person,  until  little  more  than  a  single  one  re 
mained. 

"  Here's  the  police !  look  out  I"  was  cried  at  this  junc 
ture. 

"  Who  cares  for  the  police  ?  Let  'em  come."  boldly  re 
torted  the  woman.  "  I  haven't  done  nothing ;  it's  her  that's 
come  in  drunk  and  got  up  a  row." 

Pushing  the  crowd  aside,  a  policeman  entered  the  hovel 

"  Here  she  is !"  cried  the  woman,  pointing  toward  Pinky, 
from  whom  she  had  sprung  back  the  moment  she  heard 
the  word  police.  "  She  came  in  here  drunk  and  got  up 
a  row.  I'm  a  decent  woman,  as  don't  meddle  with  nobody. 
But  she's  awful  when  she  gets  drunk.  Just  look  at  her 
— been  tearing  her  clothes  off!" 

At  this  there  was  a  shout  of  merriment  from  the  crowd 
who  had  witnessed  the  fight. 

"  Good  for  old  Sal !  she's  one  of  'em !  Can't  get  ahead 
of  old  Sal,  drunk  or  sober !"  and  like  expressions  were 
shouted  by  one  and  another. 

Poor  Pinky,  nearly  stripped  of  her  clothing,  and  with 
a  great  bruise  swelling  under  one  of  her  eyes,  bewildered 


yO  CAST  ADRIFT. 

and  frightened  at  the  aspect  of  things  around  her,  could 
make  no  acceptable  defence. 

"She  ran  over  and  pitched  into  Sal,  so  she  did!  I 
saw  her !  She  made  the  fight,  she  did !"  testified  one  of 
the  crowd ;  and  acting  on  this  testimony  and  his  own 
judgment  of  the  case,  the  policeman  said  roughly,  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  Pinky, 

"Pick  up  your  duds  and  come  along." 

Pinky  lifted  her  torn  garments  from  the  dirty  floor 
and  gathered  them  about  her  person  as  best  she  could, 
the  crowd  jeering  all  the  time.  A  pin  here  and  there, 
furnished  by  some  of  the  women,  enabled  her  to  get 
them  into  a  sort  of  shape  and  adjustment.  Then  she 
tried  to  explain  the  affair  to  the  policeman,  but  he  would 
not  listen. 

"  Come !"  he  said,  sternly. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?"  she  asked,  not 
moving  from  where  she  stood. 

"Lock  you  up,"  replied  the  policeman.  "So  come 
along." 

"  What's  the  matter  here  ?"  demanded  a  tall,  strongly^ 
built  woman,  pressing  forward.  She  spoke  with  a  for 
eign  accent,  and  in  a  tone  of  command.  The  motley 
crowd,  above  whom  she  towered,  gave  way  for  her  as  she 
approached.  Everything  about  the  woman  showed  her 
to  be  superior  in  mind  and  moral  force  to  the  unsightly 
wretches  about  her.  She  had  the  fair  skin,  blue  eyes  and 
light  hair  of  her  nation.  Her  features  were  strong,  but 
Hot  masculine.  You  saw  in  them  no  trace  of  coarse  sen 
vitality  or  vicious  indulgence. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  91 

"HereV  Norah!  here's  the  queen!"  shouted  a  voice 
from  the  crowd. 

•'  What's  the  matter  here  ?"  asked  the  woman  as  she 
gained  an  entrance  to  the  hovel. 

*c  Going  to  lock  up  Pinky  Swett,"  said  a  ragged  little 
girl  who  had  forced  her  way  in. 

"  What  for?"  demanded  the  woman,  speaking  with  the 
air  of  one  in  authority. 

"  'Cause  she  wouldn't  let  old  Sal  beat  Kit  half  to  death," 
answered  the  child. 

"Ho!  Sal's  a  devil  and  Pinky's  a  fool  to  meddle 
with  her."  Then  turning  to  the  policeman,  who  still  had 
his  hand  on  the  girl,  she  said, 

"  What're  you  goin'  to  do,  John  ?" 

"  Goin'  to  lock  her  up.     She's  drunk,  an'  bin  a-fightin'." 

"  You're  not  goin'  to  do  any  such  thing." 

"  I'm  not  drunk,  and  it's  a  lie  if  anybody  says  so,"  broke 
in  Pinky.  "  I  tried  to  keep  this  devil  from  beating  the 
life  out  of  poor  little  Kit,  and  she  pitched  into  me  and 
tore  my  clothes  off.  That's  what's  the  matter." 

The  policeman  quietly  removed  his  hand  from  Pinky's 
shoulder,  and  glanced  toward  the  woman  named  Sal,  and 
stood  as  if  waiting  orders. 

"  Better  lock  her  up,"  said  the  "  queen,"  as  she  had  been 
called.  Sal  snarled  like  a  fretted  wild  beast. 

"It's  awful,  the  way  she  beats  poor  Kit,"  chimed  in 
the  little  girl  who  had  before  spoken  against  her.  "  If  I 
was  Kit,  I'd  run  away,  so  I  would." 

"I'll  wring  your  neck  off,"  growled  Sal,  in  a  fierce 
undertone,  making  a  dash  toward  the  girl,  and  swearing 


92  CAST  ADRIFT. 

ft  ightfully.    But  the  child  shrank  to  the  side  of  the  police 
man. 

•*  If  you  lay  a  finger  on  Kit  to-night,"  said  the  queen, 
u  I'll  have  her  taken  away,  and  you  locked  up  into  the 
the  bargain." 

Sal  responded  with  another  snarl. 

"  Come."  The  queen  moved  toward  the  door.  Pinky 
followed,  the  policeman  offering  no  resistance.  A  few 
minutes  later,  and  the  miserable  crowd  of  depraved 
human  beings  had  been  absorbed  again  into  cellar  and 
garret,  hovel  and  rookery,  to  take  up  the  thread  of  their 
evil  and  sensual  lives,  and  to  plot  wickedness,  and  to 
prey  upon  and  deprave  each  other — to  dwell  as  to  their 
inner  and  real  lives  among  infernals,  to  be  in  hell  as  to 
their  spirits,  while  their  bodies  yet  remained  upon  the 
earth. 

Pinky  and  her  rescuer  passed  down  the  street  for 
a  short  distance  until  they  came  to  another  that  was 
still  narrower.  On  each  side  dim  lights  shone  from  the 
houses,  and  made  some  revelation  of  what  was  going  on 
within.  Here  liquor  was  sold,  and  there  policies.  Here 
was  a  junk-shop,  and  there  an  eating-saloon  where  for 
six  cents  you  could  make  a  meal  out  of  the  cullings  from 
beggars'  baskets.  Not  very  tempting  to  an  ordinary 
appetite  was  the  display  inside,  nor  agreeable  to  the  nos 
trils  the  odors  that  filled  the  atmosphere.  But  hunger 
like  the  swines',  that  was  not  over-nice,  satisfied  itself 
amid  these  disgusting  conglomerations,  and  kept  off  star 
vation. 

Along  tlr's  wretched  street,  with  scarcely  an  apology 


CAST  ADRIFT.  S3 

for  a  sidewalk,  moved  Pinky  and  the  queen,  until  they 
reached  a  small  two-story  frame  house  that  presented  a 
different  aspect  from  the  wretched  tenements  amid  which 
it  stood.  It  was  clean  upon  the  outside,  and  had,  as  con 
trasted  with  its  neighbors,  an  air  of  superiority.  This 
was  the  queen's  residence.  Inside,  all  was  plain  and 
homely,  but  clean  and  in  order. 

The  excitement  into  which  Pinky  had  been  thrown  was 
nearly  over  by  this  time. 

"  You've  done  me  a  good  turn,  Norah,"  she  said  as  the 
door  closed  upon  them,  "  and  I'll  not  soon  forget  you." 

"  Ugh !"  ejaculated  Norah  as  she  looked  into  Pinky 's 
bruised  face ;  "  Sal's  hit  you  square  in  the  eye ;  it'll  be 
black  as  y'r  boot  by  morning.  I'll  get  some  cold  water." 

A  basin  of  cold  water  was  brought,  and  Pinky  held  a 
wet  cloth  to  the  swollen  spot  for  a  long  time,  hoping 
thereby  not  only  to  reduce  the  swelling,  but  to  prevent 
discoloration. 

"Y'r  a  fool  to  meddle  with  Sal,"  said  Norah  as  she 
set  the  basin  of  water  before  Pinky. 

"  Why  don't  you  meddle  with  her  ?  Why  do  you  let 
her  beat  poor  little  Kit  the  way  she  does?"  demanded 
Pinky. 

Norah  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  answered  with  no 
more  feeling  in  her  voice  than  if  she  had  been  speaking 
of  inanimate  things : 

"  She's  got  to  keep  Kit  up  to  her  work." 

"  Up  to  her  work !" 

"Yes;  that's  just  it.  Kit's  lazy  and  cheats — buys 
cakes  and  candies ;  and  Sal  has  to  2ome  down  on  her ;  it'? 


94  CAST  ADRIFT. 

the  way,  you  know.  If  Sal  didn't  come  down  sharp  on  hei 
all  the  while,  Kit  wouldn't  bring  her  ten  cents  a  day.  They 
all  have  to  do  it — so  much  a  day  or  a  lickin' ;  and  a  little 
lickin'  isn't  any  use — got  to  'most  kill  some  of  'em.  We're 
used  to  it  in  here.  Hark !" 

The  screams  of  a  child  in  pain  rang  out  wildly,  the 
sounds  coming  from  across  the  narrow  street.  Quick,  hard 
strokes  of  a  lash  were  heard  at  the  same  time.  Pinky 
turned  a  little  pale. 

"  Only  Mother  Quig,"  said  Norah,  with  an  indifferent 
air;  "  she  has  to  do  it  'most  every  night — no  getting  along 
any  other  way  with  Tom.  It  beats  all  how  much  he  can 
stand." 

"Oh,  Norah,  won't  she  never  stop?"  cried  Pinky, 
starting  up.  "  I  can't  bear  it  a  minute  longer." 

"  Shut  y'r  ears.  You've  got  to,"  answered  the  woman, 
with  some  impatience  in  her  voice.  "  Tom  has  to  be  kept 
to  his  work  as  well  as  the  rest  of  'em.  Half  the  fuss  he's 
making  is  put  on,  anyhow ;  he  doesn't  mind  a  beating  any 
more  than  a  horse.  I  know  his  hollers.  There's  Flana 
gan's  Nell  getting  it  now,"  added  Norah  as  the  cries  and 
entreaties  of  another  child  were  heard.  She  drew  herself 
up  and  listened,  a  slight  shade  of  concern  drifting  acros? 
her  face. 

A  long,  agonizing  wail  shivered  through  the  air. 

"  Nell's  sick,  and  can't  do  her  work."  The  woman  rose 
as  she  spoke.  "  I  saw  her  goin'  off  to-day,  and  told 
Flanagan  she'd  better  keep  her  at  home." 

Saying  this,  Norah  went  out  quickly,  Pinky  following. 
With  head  erect  and  mouth  set  firmly,  the  queen  strode 


CAST  ADRIFT.  95 

across  the  street  and  a  little  way  down  the  pavement,  to 
the  entrance  of  a  cellar,  from  which  the  cries  and  sounda 
of  whipping  came.  Down  the  five  or  six  rotten  and 
broKen  steps  she  plunged,  Pinky  close  after  her. 

"  Stop !"  shouted  Norah,  in  a  tone  of  command. 

Instantly  the  blows  ceased,  and  the  cries  were  hushed. 

"  You'll  be  hanged  for  murder  if  you  don't  take  eare," 
said  Norah.  "  What's  Nell  been  doin'  ?" 

"Doin',  the  slut!"  ejaculated  the  woman,  a  short., 
bloated,  revolting  creature,  with  scarcely  anything  human 
in  her  face.  "  Doin',  did  ye  say  ?  It's  nothin'  she's  been 
doin',  the  lazy,  trapsing  huzzy!  Who's  that  intrudin' 
herself  in  here  ?"  she  added,  fiercely,  as  she  saw  Pinky> 
making  at  the  same  time  a  movement  toward  the  girl. 
"  Get  out  o'  here,  or  I'll  spile  y'r  pictur' !" 

"  Keep  quiet,  will  you  ?"  said  Norah,  putting  her  hand 
on  the  woman  and  pushing  her  back  as  easily  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child.  "  Now  come  here,  Nell,  and  let  me 
look  at  you." 

Out  of  the  far  corner  of  the  cellar  into  which  Flana 
gan  had  thrown  her  when  she  heard  Norah's  voice,  and 
into  the  small  circle  of  light  made  by  a  single  tallow  candle, 
there  crept  slowly  the  figure  of  a  child  literally  clothed 
in  rags.  Norah  reached  out  her  hand  to  her  as  she  came 
up — there  was  a  scared  look  on  her  pinched  face — and 
drew  her  close  to  the  light. 

"Gracious!  your  hand's  like  an  ice-ball!"  exclaimed 
Norah. 

Pinky  looked  at  the  child,  and  grew  faint  at  heart. 
She  had  large  hazel  eyes,  that  gleamed  with  a  singular 


96  CAST  ADRIFT. 

lustre  out  of  the  suffering,  griirQ.d  and  wasted  little  face, 
go  pale  and  sad  and  pitiful  that  the  sight  of  it  wat 
enough  to  draw  tears  from  any  but  the  brutal  and 
hardened. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?"  asked  Norah. 

"No,  she's  not  sick;  she's  only  shamming,"  growled 
Flanagan. 

"  You  shut  up  !"  retorted  Norah.  "  I  wasn't  speaking 
t«>  you."  Then  she  repeated  her  question  : 

"  Are  you  sick,  Nell  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Norah  laid  her  hand  on  the  child's  head  : 

"Does  it  hurt  here?" 

"Oh  yes!     It  hurts  so  I  can't  see  good,"  answered 


"  It's  all  a  lie  !     I  know  her  ;  she's  shamming." 

"Oh  no,  Norah!"  cried  the  child,  a  sudden  hope 
blending  with  the  fear  in  her  voice.  "  I  ain't  shamming 
at  all.  I  fell  down  ever  so  many  times  in  the  street^ 
and  'most  got  run  over.  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  and  she 
clung  to  the  woman  with  a  gesture  of  despair  piteous 
to  see. 

"I  don't  believe  you  are,  Nell,"  said  Norah,  kindly. 
Then,  to  the  woman,  "  Now  mind,  Flanagan,  Nell's  sick  ; 
d'ye  hear?" 

The  woman  only  uttered  a  defiant  growl. 

"  She's  not  to  be  licked  again  to-night."  Norah  spoke 
is  one  having  authority. 


CAST'  ADRIFT.  97 

"I  wish  ye'd  be  rnindin'  y'r  own  business,  and  not 
come  interfarin'  wid  me.  She's  my  gal,  and  I've  a  right 
to  lick  her  if  I  plaze." 

"  Maybe  she  is  and  maybe  she  isn't,"  retorted  Norah. 

"  Who  says  she  isn't  my  gal  ?"  screamed  the  woman, 
firing  up  at  this  and  reaching  out  for  Nell,  who  shrunk 
closer  to  Norah. 

"  Maybe  she  is  and  maybe  she  isn't,"  said  the  queen, 
quietly  repeating  her  last  sentence ;  "  and  I  think  maybe 
she  isn't.  So  take  care  and  mind  what  I  say.  Nell  isn't 
to  be  licked  any  more  to-night." 

"  Oh,  Norah,"  sobbed  the  child,  in  a  husky,  choking 
voice,  "take  me,  won't  you?  She'll  pinch  me,  and  she'll 
hit  my  head  on  the  wall,  and  she'll  choke  me  and  knock 
me.  Oh,  Norah,  Norah !" 

Pinky  could  stand  this  no  longer.  Catching  up  the 
bundle  of  rags  in  her  arms,  she  sprang  out  of  the  cellar 
and  ran  across  the  street  to  the  queen's  house,  Norah 
and  Flanagan  coming  quickly  after  her.  At  the  door, 
through  which  Pinky  had  passed,  Norah  paused,  and 
turning  to  the  infuriated  Irish  woman,  said,  sternly, 

"Go  back!  I  won't  have  you  in  here;  and  if  you 
make  a  row,  I'll  tell  John  to  lock  you  up." 

"  I  want  my  Nell,"  said  the  woman,  her  manner  chang-' 
ing.  There  was  a  shade  of  alarm  in  her  voice. 

"  You  can't  have  her  to-night ;  so  that's  settled.  And 
if  there's  any  row,  you'll  be  locked  up."  Saying  which, 
Norah  went  in  and  shut  the  door,  leaving  Flanagan  on 
the  outside* 

The  bundle  of  dirty  rags  with  the  wasted  body  of  a 
9  G 


»8  CAST  ADRIFT. 

child  inside,  the  body  scarcely  heavier  thaii  the  ragt, 
was  laid  by  Pinky  in  the  corner  of  a  settee,  and  the  un- 
gigbtly  mass  shrunk  together  like  something  inanimate. 

"I  thought  you'd  had  enough  with  old  Sal,"  said 
Norah,  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  as  she  came  in. 

"  Couldn't  help  it,"  replied  Pinky.  "  I'm  bad  enough, 
but  I  can't  stand  to  see  a  child  abused  like  that — no,  not 
if  I  die  for  it." 

Norah  crossed  to  the  settee  and  spoke  to  Nell.  But 
there  was  no  answer,  nor  did  the  bundle  of  rags  stir. 

"Nell!  Nell!"  She  called  to  deaf  ears.  Then  she 
put  her  hand  on  the  child  and  raised  one  of  the  arms.  It 
dropped  away  limp  as  a  withered  stalk,  showing  the  ashen 
white  face  across  which  it  had  lain. 

The  two  women  manifested  no  excitement.  The  child 
had  fainted  or  was  dead — which,  they  did  not  know. 
Norah  straightened  out  the  wasted  little  form  and  turned 
up  the  face.  The  eyes  were  shut,  the  mouth  closed,  the 
pinched  features  rigid,  as  if  still  giving  expression  to  pain, 
but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  sign  that  life  had  gone 
out  of  them.  It  might  be  for  a  brief  season,  it  might  be 
for  ever. 

A  little  water  was  thrown  into  the  child's  face.  Its 
only  effect  was  to  streak  the  grimy  skin. 

"  Poor  little  thing !"  said  Pinky.    "  I  hope  she's  dead." 

"They're  tough.  They  don't  die  easy,"  returned 
Norah. 

"  She  isn't  one  of  the  tough  kind." 

"  Maybe  not.  They  say  Flanagan  stole  hex  when  she 
was  a  little  thing,  just  toddling." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  S» 

"  Don't  let's  do  anything  to  try  to  bring  her  to,:  said 
Piiiky. 

Norah  stood  for  some  moments  with  an  irresolute  air, 
then  bent  over  the  child  and  examined  her  more  carefully, 
She  could  feel  no  pulse  beat,  nor  any  motion  of  the  heart. 

"  I  don't  want  the  coroner  here,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
of  annoyance.  "  Take  her  back  to  Flanagan ;  it's  her 
work,  and  she  must  stand  by  it." 

"  Is  she  really  dead  ?"  asked  Pinky. 

"  Looks  like  it,  and  serves  Flanagan  right.  I've  told 
her  over  and  over  that  Nell  wouldn't  stand  it  long  if  she 
didn't  ease  up  a  little.  Flesh  isn't  iron." 

Again  she  examined  the  child  carefully,  but  without 
the  slightest  sign  of  feeling. 

"  It's  all  the  same  now  who  has  her,"  she  said,  turning 
off  from  the  settee.  "  Take  her  back  to  Flanagan." 

But  Pinky  would  not  touch  the  child,  nor  could  threat 
or  persuasion  lead  her  to  do  so.  While  they  were  con 
tending,  Flanagan,  who  had  fired  herself  up  with  half 
a  pint  of  whisky,  came  storming  through  the  door  in  a 
blind  rage  and  screaming  out, 

"  Where's  my  Nell  ?     I  want  my  Nell !" 

Catching  sight  of  the  child's  inanimate  form  lying  on 
the  settee,  she  pounced  down  upon  it  like  some  foul  bird 
and  bore  it  off,  cursing  and  striking  the  senseless  clay  in 
her  insane  fury. 

Pinky,  horrified  at  the  dreadful  sight,  and  not  sure 
that  the  child  was  really  dead,  and  so  insensible  to  pain, 
made  a  movement  to  follow,  but  Norah  caught  her  arm 
with  a  tight  grip  and  held  her  back. 


100  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Are  you  a  fool?"  said  the  queen,  sternly.  "Lei 
Flanagan  alone.  Nell's  out  of  her  reach,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it." 

"  If  I  was  only  sure !"  exclaimed  Pinky. 

"  You  may  be.  I  know  death — I've  seen  it  often  enough 
They'll  have  the  coroner  over  there  in  the  morning.  It'a 
Flanagan's  concern,  not  yours  or  mine,  so  keep  out  of  it 
if  you  know  when  you're  well  off." 

"  I'll  appear  against  her  at  the  inquest,"  said  Pinky. 

"  You'll  do  no  such  thing.  Keep  your  tongue  behind 
your  teeth.  It's  time  enough  to  show  it  when  it's  pulled 
out.  Take  my  advice,  and  mind  your  own  business. 
5Tou'll  have  enough  to  do  caring  for  your  own  head, 
without  looking  after  other  people's." 

"  I'm  not  one  of  that  kind,"  answered  Pinky,  a  little 
tartly ;  "  and  if  there's  any  way  to  keep  Flanagan  from 
murdering  another  child,  I'm  going  to  find  it  out." 

"  You'll  find  out  something  else  first,"  said  Norah,  with 
a  slight  curl  of  her  lip. 

"What?" 

"  The  way  to  prison." 

«  Pshaw !  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  You'd  better  be.  If  you  appear  against  Flanagan, 
she'll  have  you  caged  before  to-morrow  night." 

"  How  can  she  do  it?" 

"  Swear  against  you  before  an  alderman,  and  he'll  send 
you  down  if  it's  only  to  get  his  fee.  She  knows  her 
man." 

"  Suppose  murder  is  proved  against  her  ?" 

"Suppose!"      Norah    gave    a    little    derisive    laugh, 


CAST  ADRIFT.  101 

"They  don't  look  after  things  in  here  as  they  do  out 
side.  Everybody's  got  the  screws  on,  and  things  must 
break  sometimes,  but  it  isn't  called  murder.  The  coroner 
understands  it  all.  He's  used  to  seeing  things  break." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FOK  a  short  time  the  sounds  of  cruel  exultation  oama 
over  from  Flanagan's ;  then  all  was  still. 

"Sal "a  put  her  mark  on  you,"  said  Norah,  looking 
steadily  into  Pinky 's  face,  and  laughing  in  a  cold,  half- 
amused  way. 

Pinky  raised  her  hand  to  her  swollen  cheek.  "  Does 
it  look  very  bad  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Spoils  your  beauty  some." 

"Will  it  get  black?" 

"  Shouldn't  wonder.  But  what  can't  be  helped,  can't. 
You'll  mind  your  own  business  next  time,  and  keep  out 
of  Sal's  way.  She's  dangerous.  What's  the  matter?" 

"  Got  a  sort  of  chill,"  replied  the  girl,  who  from  ner 
vous  reaction  was  beginning  to  shiver. 

"  Oh,  want  something  to  warm  you  up."  Norah  brought 
out  a  bottle  of  spirits.  Pinky  poured  a  glass  nearly  half 
full,  added  some  water,  and  then  drank  off  the  fiery 
mixture. 

"None  of  your  common  stuff,"  said  Norah,  with  a 
smile,  as  Pinky  smacked  her  lips.  The  girl  drew  her 
handkerchief  from  her  pocket,  and  as  she  did  so  a  piece 
of  paper  dropped  on  the  floor. 

u  Oh,  there  it  is !"  she  exclaimed,  light  flashing  into  her 

102 


CAST  ADRIFT.  103 

face.  "  Going  to  make  a  splendid  hit.  Just  look  at  them 
rows." 

Norah  threw  an  indifferent  glance  on  the  paper. 

'*'  They're  lucky,  every  one  of  them,"  said  Pinky.  "  Go 
ing  to  put  half  a  dollar  on  each  row — sure  to  make  a 
hit." 

The  queen  gave  one  of  her  peculiar  shrugs. 

"  Going  to  break  Sam  McFaddon,"  continued  Pinky, 
her  spirits  rising  under  the  influence  of  Norah's  treat. 

"  Soft  heads  don't  often  break  hard  rocks,"  returned 
the  woman,  with  a  covert  sneer. 

"  That's  an  insult !"  cried  Pinky,  on  whom  the  liquor 
she  had  just  taken  was  beginning  to  have  a  marked  effect, 
"and  I  won't  stand  an  insult  from  you  or  anybody 
else." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  if  I  was  you,"  returned  Norah, 
coolly.  A  hard  expression  began  settling  about  her  mouth. 

"  And  I  don't  mean  to.  I'm  as  good  as  you  are,  any 
day !" 

"You  may  be  a  great  deal  better,  for  all  I  care,"  an 
swered  Norah.  "  Only  take  my  advice,  and  keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  your  head."  There  was  a  threatening  under- 
tone  in  the  woman's  voice.  She  drew  her  tell  person 
more  erect,  and  shook  herself  like  a  wild  beast  aroused 
from  inaction. 

Pinky  was  too  blind  to  see  the  change  that  had  come 
BO  suddenly.  A  stinging  retort  fell  from  her  lips.  But 
tiie  words  had  scarcely  died  on  the  air  ere  she  found  her 
self  in  the  grip  of  vice-like  hands.  Resistance  was  of  no 
more  avail  than  if  she  had  been  a  child.  In  what  seemed 


104  CAST  ADRIFT. 

but  a  moment  of  time  she  was  pushed  back  through  tht 
door  and  dropped  upon  the  pavement.  Then  the  dooi 
shut,  and  she  was  alone  on  the  outside — no,  not  alone,  for 
scores  of  the  denizens  who  huddle  together  in  that  foul 
region  were  abroad,  and  gathered  around  her  as  quickly 
as  flies  about  a  heap  of  offal,  curious,  insolent  and  aggres 
sive.  As  she  arose  to  her  feet  she  found  herself  hemmed 
in  by  a  jeering  crowd. 

"  Ho !  it's  Pinky  Swett !"  cried  a  girl,  pressing  toward 
her.  «  Hi,  Pinky !  what's  the  matter  ?  What's  up  ?" 

"  Norah  pitched  her  out!  I  saw  it !"  screamed  a  boy,  one 
of  the  young  thieves  that  harbored  in  the  quarter. 

*'  It's  a  lie !"  Pinky  answered  back  as  she  confronted 
the  crowd. 

At  this  moment  another  boy,  who  had  come  up  behind 
Pinky,  gave  her  dress  so  violent  a  jerk  that  she  fell  over 
backward  on  the  pavement,  striking  her  head  on  a  stone 
and  cutting  it  badly.  She  lay  there,  unable  to  rise,  the 
crowd  laughing  with  as  much  enjoyment  as  if  witnessing 
a  dog-fight. 

"  Give  her  a  dose  of  mud !"  shouted  one  of  the  boys ; 
and  almost  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth, 
her  face  was  covered  with  a  paste  of  filthy  dirt  from  the 
gutter.  This,  instead  of  exciting  pity,  only  gave  a  keener 
zest  to  the  show.  The  street  rang  with  shouts  and  peals 
of  merriment,  bringing  a  new  and  larger  crowd  to  see  the 
fun.  With  them  came  one  or  two  policemen. 

Seeing  that  it  was  only  a  drunken  woman,  they  pushed 
back  the  crowd  and  raised  her  to  her  feet.  As  they  did 
K)  the  blood  streamed  from  the  back  of  her  head  and 


CAST  ADRIFT.  iO£ 

atained  her  dress  to  the  waist.     She  was  taken  to  the 
nearest  station-house. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  next  morning,  punctual  to  the 
minute,  came  Mrs.  Dinneford  to  the  little  third-story  room 
in  which  she  had  met  Mrs.  Bray.  She  repeated  her  ~ap 
at  the  door  before  it  was  opened,  and  noticed  that  a  key 
was  turned  in  the  lock. 

"  You  have  seen  the  woman  ?"  she  said  as  she  took  an 
offered  seat,  coming  at  once  to  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  I  gave  her  the  money." 

"Well?" 

Mrs.  Bray  shook  her  head : 

"Afraid  I  can't  do  much  with  her." 

"Why?"  an  anxious  expression  coming  into  Mrs. 
Dinneford's  face. 

"  These  people  suspect  everybody ;  there  is  no  honor 
nor  truth  in  them,  and  they  judge  every  one  by  them 
selves.  She  half  accused  me  of  getting  a  larger  amouni 
of  money  from  you,  and  putting  her  off  with  the  paltry 
sum  of  thirty  dollars." 

Mrs.  Bray  looked  exceedingly  hurt  and  annoyed. 

"  Threatened,"  she  went  on,  "  to  go  to  you  herself- 
didn't  want  any  go-betweens  nor  brokers.     I  expected  to 
hear  you  say  that  sh^'d  been  at  your  house  this  morning." 

"  Good  Gracious !  no !"  Mrs.  Dinneford's  face  was 
almost  distorted  with  alarm. 

"  It's  the  way  with  all  these  people,"  coolly  remarked 
Mrs;.  Bray.  "  You're  never  safe  with  them." 


106  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Did  you  hint  at  hei  leaving  the  city  ? — going  to 
Orleans,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  She  isn't  to  be  managed  in  that  way- 
is  deeper  and  more  set  than  I  thought.  The  fact  is,  Mrs. 
Dinneford  " — and  Mrs.  Bray  lowered  her  voice  and  looked 
shocked  and  mysterious — "  I'm  beginning  to  suspect  her 
a?  being  connected  with  a  gang." 

"  With  a  gang  ?  What  kind  of  a  gang  ?"  Mrs.  Din 
neford  turned  slightly  pale. 

"A  gang  of  thieves.  She  isn't  the  right  thing;  I 
found  that  out  long  ago.  You  remember  what  I  said 
when  you  gave  her  the  child.  I  told  you  that  she  was 
not  a  good  woman,  and  that  it  was  a  cruel  thing  to  put  a 
helpless,  new-born  baby  into  her  hands." 

"  Never  mind  about  that."  Mrs.  Dinneford  waved  her 
hand  impatiently.  "  The  baby's  out  of  her  hands,  so  far 
as  that  is  concerned.  A  gang  of  thieves !" 

"  Yes,  I'm  'most  sure  of  it.  Goe«  to  people's  houses  on 
one  excuse  and  another,  and  finds  out  where  the  silver  is 
kept  and  how  to  get  in.  You  don't  know  half  the  wicked 
ness  that's  going  on.  So  you  see  it's  no  use  trying  to  get 
her  away." 

Mrs.  Bray  was  watching  the  face  of  her  visitor  with 
covert  scrutiny,  gauging,  as  she  did  so,  by  its  weak 
alarms,  the  measure  of  her  power  over  her. 

"  Dreadful!  dreadful !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with 
dismay. 

"  It's  bad  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Bray,  "  and  I  don't  see 
the  end  of  it.  She's  got  you  in  her  power,  and  no  mis 
take,  and  shft  isn't  one  of  the  kind  to  give  up  so  splendid 


CAST  ADRIFT.  107 

an  advantage.  I'm  only  surprised  that  she's  kept  away 
so  long." 

"  What's  to  be  done  about  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinneford 
her  alarm  and  distress  increasing. 

"  Ah !  that's  more  than  I  can  tell,"  coolly  returned 
Mrs.  Bray.  "  One  thing  is  certain — I  don't  want  to  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  her.  It  isn't  safe  to  let  her 
come  here.  You'll  have  to  manage  her  yourself." 

"No,  no,  no,  Mrs.  Bray!  You  mustn't  desert  me!" 
answered  Mrs.  Dinneford,  her  face  growing  pallid  with 
fear.  "  Money  is  of  no  account.  I'll  pay  'most  anything, 
reasonable  or  unreasonable,  to  have  her  kept  away." 

And  she  drew  out  her  pocket-book  while  speaking.  At 
this  moment  there  came  two  distinct  raps  on  the  door. 
It  had  been  locked  after  Mrs.  Dinneford 's  entrance.  Mrs. 
Bray  started  and  changed  countenance,  turning  her  face 
quickly  from  observation.  But  she  was  self-possessed  in 
an  instant.  Rising,  she  said  in  a  whisper, 

"  Go  silently  into  the  next  room,  and  remain  perfectly 
still.  I  believe  that's  the  woman  now.  I'll  manage  her 
as  best  I  can." 

Almost  as  quick  as  thought,  Mrs.  Dinneford  vanished 
through  a  door  that  led  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  clos 
ing  it  noiselessly,  turned  a  key  that  stood  in  the  lock, 
then  sat  down,  trembling  with  nervous  alarm.  The  room 
in  which  she  found  herself  was  small,  and  overlooked  the 
street :  it  was  scantily  furnished  as  a  bed-room.  In  one 
corner,  partly  hid  by  a  curtain  that  hung  from  a  hoop 
fastened  to  the  wall,  was  an  old  wooden  chest,  such  as  are 
used  by  sailors.  Under  the  bed,  and  pushed  as  far  back 


108  CAST  ADRIFT. 

as  possible,  was  another  of  the  same  kind.  The  air  of  th* 
room  was  close,  and  she  noticed  the  stale  smell  of  a  cigar. 

A  murmur  of  voices  from  the  room  she  had  left  so 
hastily  soon  reached  her  ears ;  but  though  she  listened  in 
tently,  standing  close  to  the  door,  she  was  not  able  to  dis 
tinguish  a  word.  Once  or  twice  she  was  sure  that  she 
heard  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice.  It  was  nearly  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  by  her  watch — it  seemed  two  hours — be 
fore  Mrs.  Bray's  visitor  or  visitors  retired ;  then  thero 
came  a  light  rap  on  the  door.  She  opened  it,  and  stood 
face  to  face  again  with  the  dark-eyed  little  woman. 

"  You  kept  me  here  a  long  time,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneforo^ 
with  ill-concealed  impatience. 

"No  longer  than  I  could  help,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray. 
"Affahs  of  this  kind  are  not  settled  in  a  minute." 

"  Then  it  was  that  miserable  woman  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  make  out  of  her  ?" 

"  Not  much ;  she's  too  greedy.  The  taste  of  blood  has 
sharpened  her  appetite." 

"  What  does  she  want  ?" 

"  She  wants  two  hundred  dollars  paid  into  her  hand  to* 
day,  and  says  that  if  the  money  isn't  here  by  sundown, 
you'll  have  a  visit  from  her  in  less  than  an  hour  after 
ward." 

"  Will  that  be  the  end  of  it?" 

A  sinister  smile  curved  Mrs.  Bray's  lips  slightly. 

"  More  than  I  can  say,"  she  answered. 

"Two  hundred  dollars?" 

"  Yes.   She  put  the  amount  higher,  but  I  told  her  she'd 


CAST  ADRIFT.  109 

better  not  go  for  too  big  a  slice  or  she  might  get  nothing— 
that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  setting  the  police  after  hert 
She  laughed  at  this  in  such  a  wicked,  sneering  way  that 
I  felt  my  flesh  creep,  and  said  she  knew  the  police,  and 
Borne  of  their  masters,  too,  and  wasn't  afraid  of  them. 
She's  a  dreadful  woman ;"  and  Mrs.  Bray  shivered  in  a 
very  natural  manner. 

"If  I  thought  this  wculd  be  the  last  of  it!"  said  Mrs. 
Dinneford  as  she  moved  about  the  room  in  a  disturbed 
way,  and  with  an  anxious  look  on  her  face. 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  her  companion,  "it  would  be 
best  for  you  to  grapple  with  this  thing  at  the  outset — to 
take  our  vampire  by  the  throat  and  strangle  her  at  once. 
The  knife  is  the  only  remedy  for  some  forms  of  disease. 
If  left  to  grow  and  prey  upon  the  body,  they  gradually 
suck  away  its  life  and  destroy  it  in  the  end." 

"  If  I  only  knew  how  to  do  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Dinneford. 
"  If  I  could  only  get  her  in  my  power,  I'd  make  short 
work  of  her."  Her  eyes  flashed  with  a  cruel  light. 

"  It  might  be  done." 

"How?" 

"  Mr.  Dinneford  knows  the  chief  of  police." 

The  light  went  out  of  Mrs.  Dinneford's  eyes : 

"  It  can't  be  done  in  that  way,  and  you  know  it  as  well 
as  I  do." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  turned  upon  Mrs.  Bray  sharply,  and 
with  a  gleam  of  suspicion  in  her  face. 

"  I  don't  know  any  other  way,  unless  you  go  to  the 
chief  yourself,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray,  coolly.  "  There  is  m: 
protection  in  cases  like  this  except  through  the  law 
10 


110  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Without  police  interference,  you  are  whc  Uy  in  this  woman's 
power." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  grew  very  pale. 

"  It  is  always  dangerous,"  went  on  Mrs.  Bray,  "  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  people  of  this  class.  A  woman  who 
foi  hire  will  take  a  new-born  baby  and  sell  it  to  a  beggar- 
woman  will  not  stop  at  anything.  It  is  very  unfortunate 
that  you  are  mixed  up  with  her." 

"I'm  indebted  to  you  for  the  trouble,"  replied  Mrs 
Dinneford,  with  considerable  asperity  of  manner.  "  You 
ought  to  have  known  something  about  the  woman  before 
employing  her  in  a  delicate  affair  of  this  kind." 

"Saints  don't  hire  themselves  to  put  away  new-born 
babies,"  retorted  Mrs.  Bray,  with  an  ugly  gurgle  in  her 
throat.  "I  told  you  at  the  time  that  she  was  a  bad 
woman,  and  have  not  forgotten  your  answer." 

"  What  did  I  answer  ?" 

"  That  she  might  be  the  devil  for  all  you  cared !" 

"  You  are  mistaken." 

•4  No ;  I  repeat  your  very  words.  They  surprised  and 
shocked  me  at  the  time,  and  I  have  not  forgotten  them. 
People  who  deal  with  the  devil  usually  have  the  devil 
to  pay ;  and  your  case,  it  seems,  is  not  to  be  an  excep 
tion.'"' 

Mrs.  Bray  had  assumed  an  air  of  entire  equality  with 
her  visitor. 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  Mrs.  Dinneford 
walked  the  floor  with  the  quick,  restless  motions  of  a 
raged  animal. 

"How  long  do  you   think   two  hundred  dollars  wil] 


CAST  ADRIFT.  HI 

satisfy  her  ?"  she  asked,  at  length,  pausing  and  turning  to 
her  companion. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say,"  was  answered ;  "  not 
'ong,  unless  you  can  manage  to  frighten  her  off;  you 
must  threaten  hard." 

Another  silence  followed. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  be  called  on  for  so  large  a  sum," 
Mrs.  Dinneford  said,  at  length,  in  a  husky  voice,  taking 
out  her  pocket-book  as  she  spoke.  "  I  have  only  a  hun 
dred  dollars  with  me.  Give  her  that,  and  put  her  off 
until  to-morrow." 

"  I  will  do  the  best  I  can  with  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray, 
reaching  out  her  hand  for  the  money,  "  but  I  think  it  will 
be  safer  for  you  to  let  me  have  the  balance  to-day.  She 
will,  most  likely,  take  it  into  her  head  that  I  have  re 
ceived  the  whole  sum  from  you,  and  think  I  am  trying  to 
cheat  her.  In  that  case  she  will  be  as  good  as  her  word, 
and  come  down  on  you." 

"Mrs.  Bray!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dinneford,  suspicion 
blazing  from  her  eyes.  "  Mrs.  Bray  !" — and  she  turned 
upon  her  and  caught  her  by  the  arms  with  a  fierce  grip — 
"  as  I  live,  you  are  deceiving  me.  There  is  no  woman  but 
yourself.  You  are  the  vampire !" 

She  held  the  unresisting  little  woman  in  her  vigorous 
grasp  for  some  moments,  gazing  at  her  in  stern  and  angry 
accusation. 

Mrs.  Bray  stood  very  quiet  and  witL  sea  cely  a  change 
of  countenance  until  this  outburst  of  passion  had  sub 
sided.  She  was  still  holding  the  money  she  had  taken 
from  Mrs.  Dinneford.  As  the  latter  released  her  she 


112  CAST  ADRIFT. 

extended  her  hand,  saying,  in  a  low  resolute  voice,  IL 
which  not  the  faintest  thrill  of  anger  could  be  detected, 

"  Take  your  money."  She  waited  for  a  moment,  and 
then  let  the  little  roll  of  bank-bills  fall  at  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford's  feet  and  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  had  made  a  mistake,  and  she  saw  it — 
saw  that  she  was  now  more  than  ever  in  the  power  of  this 
woman,  whether  she  was  true  or  false.  If  false,  more 
fatally  in  her  power. 

At  this  dead-lock  in  the  interview  between  these  women 
there  came  a  diversion.  The  sound  of  feet  was  heard  OH 
the  stairs,  then  a  hurrying  along  the  narrow  passage ;  a 
hand  was  on  the  door,  but  the  key  had  been  prudently 
turned  on  the  inside. 

With  a  quick  motion  Mrs.  Bray  waved  her  hand  toward 
the  adjoining  chamber.  Mrs.  Dinneford  did  not  hesitate, 
but  glided  in  noiselessly,  shutting  and  locking  the  door 
behind  her. 

"  Pinky  Swett !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bray,  in  a  low  voice, 
putting  her  finger  to  her  lips,  as  she  admitted  her  visitor, 
at  the  same  time  giving  a  warning  glance  toward  the 
other  room.  Eyeing  her  from  head  to  foot,  she  added, 
"  Well,  you  are  an  object !" 

Pinky  had  drawn  aside  a  close  veil,  exhibiting  a  bruised 
and  swollen  face.  A  dark  band  lay  under  one  of  hei 
eyes,  and  there  was  a  cut  with  red,  angry  margins  on  the 
cheek. 

"  You  are  an  object,"  repeated  Mrs.  Bray  as  Pink) 
naoved  forward  into  the  room. 

"  Well,  I  am,  and  no  mistake,"  answered  Pinky,  will? 


CAST  ADRIFT.  113 

a  light  laugh.  She  had  been  drinking  enough  to  over 
come  the  depression  and  discomfort  of  her  feelings  conse 
quent  on  the  hard  usage  she  had  received  and  a  night  in 
one  of  the  city  station-houses.  •«  Who's  in  there?" 

Mrs.  Bray's  finger  went  again  to  her  ups.  "  No  matter," 
was  replied.  "  You  must  go  away  until  the  coast  is  clear. 
Come  back  in  half  an  hour." 

-And  she  hurried  Pinky  out  of  the  door,  locking  it  aa 
the  girl  retired.  When  Mrs.  Dinneford  came  out  of  the 
room  into  which  she  had  gone  so  hastily,  the  roll  of  bank 
notes  still  lay  upon  the  floor.  Mrs.  Bray  had  prudently 
slipped  them  into  her  pocket  before  admitting  Pinky,  but 
as  soon  as  she  was  alone  had  thrown  them  down  again. 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Dinneford  was  pale,  and  exhibited  no 
ordinary  signs  of  discomfiture  and  anxiety. 

"  Who  was  that?"  she  asked. 

"  A  friend,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray,  in  a  cold,  self-possessea 
manner. 

A  few  moments  cf  embarrassed  silence  followed.  Mrs. 
Bray  crossed  the  room,  touching  with  her  foot  the  bank- 
bills,  as  if  they  were  of  no  account  to  her. 

"  I  am  half  beside  myself/'  said  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

Mrs.  Bray  made  no  response,  did  not  even  turn  toward 
her  visitor. 

"  I  spoke  hastily." 

•'  A  vampire !"  Mrs.  Bray  swept  round  upon  her  fiercely. 
"A  blood-sucker!"  and  she  ground  her  teeth  in  well- 
eigned  passion. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  sat  down  trembling. 

"  Tako  your  money  and  go,"  said  Mrs.  Brsyr  and  she 
1)*  H 


114  CAST  ADRIFT. 

lifted  the  bills  from  the  floor  and  tossed  them  into  he* 
visitor's  Jap.  "  I  am  served  right.  It  was  evil  work,  and 
good  never  comes  of  evil." 

But  Mrs.  Dinneford  did  not  stir.  To  go  away  at  enmity 
with  this  woman  was,  so  far  as  she  could  see,  to  meet  ex 
posure  and  unutterable  disgrace.  Anything  but  that. 

"  I  shall  leave  this  money,  trusting  still  to  your  good 
offices,**  she  said,  at  length,  rising.  Her  manner  was 
much  subdued.  "  I  spoke  hastily,  in  a  sort  of  blind  des 
peration.  We  should  not  weigh  too  carefully  the  worda 
that  are  extorted  by  pain  or  fear.  In  less  than  an  hour 
I  will  send  you  a  hundred  dollars  more." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  laid  the  bank-bills  on  a  table,  and  then 
moved  to  the  door,  but  she  dared  not  leave  in  this  un 
certainty.  Looking  back,  she  said,  with  an  appealing 
humility  of  voice  and  manner  foreign  to  her  character, 

"Let  us  be  friends  still,  Mrs.  Bray;  we  shall  gain 
nothing  by  being  enemies.  I  can  serve  you,  and  you  can 
serve  me.  My  suspicions  were  ill  founded.  I  felt  wild 
and  desperate,  and  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying." 

She  stood  anxiou3ly  regarding  the  little  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  did  not  respond  by  word  or  movement. 

Taking  her  hand  from  the  door  she  was  about  opening, 
Mrs.  Dinneford  came  back  into  the  room,  and  stood  close 
to  Mrs.  Bray : 

"  Shall  I  send  you  the  money  ?" 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,"  was  replie  I,  with  chilling 
indifference. 

"  Are  you  implacable  ?" 

"  I  am  not  used  to  suspicion,  much  less  denunciation 


CAST  ADRIFT.  115 

and  assault.  A  vampire!  Do  you  know  what  that 
means  ?" 

"  It  meant,  as  used  by  me,  only  madness.  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  saying.  It  was  a  cry  of  pain — nothing 
more.  Consider  how  I  stand,  how  much  I  have  at  stake, 
in  what  a  wretched  affair  I  have  become  involved.  It  ia 
all  new  to  me,  and  I  am  bewildered  and  at  fault.  Do  not 
desert  me  in  this  crisis.  I  must  have  some  one  to  stand 
between  me  and  this  woman ;  and  if  you  step  aside,  to 
whom  can  I  go  ?" 

Mrs.  Bray  relented  just  a  little.  Mrs.  Dinneford 
pleaded  and  humiliated  herself,  and  drifted  farther  into 
the  toils  of  her  confederate. 

"  You  are  not  rich,  Mrs.  Bray,"  she  said,  at  parting, 
"independent  in  spirit  as  you  are.  I  shall  add  a 
hundred  dollars  for  your  own  use ;  and  if  ever  you  btand 
in  need,  you  will  know  where  to  find  an  unfailing  friend." 

Mrs.  Bray  put  up  her  hands,  and  replied,  "  No,  no, 
no ;  don't  think  of  such  a  thing.  I  am  not  mercenary. 
I  never  serve  a  friend  for  money." 

But  Mrs.  Dinneford  heard  the  "yes"  which  flushed 
into  the  voice  that  said  "  no."  She  was  not  deceived. 

A  rapid  change  passed  over  Mrs.  Bray  on  the  instant 
her  visitor  left  the  room.  Her  first  act  was  to  lock  the 
door ;  her  next,  to  take  the  roll  of  bank-bills  from  the 
table  and  put  it  into  her  pocket.  Over  her  face  a 
gleam  of  evil  satisfaction  had  swept. 

"  Got  you  all  right  now,  my  lady !"  fell  with  a  (.-buckle 
from  her  lips.  "A  vampire,  ha!"  The  chuckle  was 
changed  for  a  kind  of  hiss.  "  Well,  have  it  so.  There 


116  CAST  ADRIFT. 

is  rich  blood  in  your  veins,  and  it  will  be  no  fault  of  mine 
if  I  do  not  fatten  upon  it.  As  for  pity,  you  shall  have  as 
much  of  it  as  you  gave  to  that  helpless  baby.  Saints 
don't  work  in  this  kind  of  business,  and  I'm  not  a  saint." 
And  she  chuckled  and  hissed  and  muttered  to  herself, 
with  many  signs  of  evil  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FOR  an  hour  Mrs.  Bray  waited  the  reappearance  of 
Pinky  Swett,  but  the  girl  did  not  come  back.  At 
the  end  of  this  time  a  package  which  had  been  left  at 
the  door  was  brought  to  her  room.  It  came  from  Mrs. 
Dinneford,  and  contained  two  hundred  dollars.  A  note 
that  accompanied  the  package  read  as  follows : 

"  Forgive  my  little  fault  of  temper.  It  is  your  interest 
to  be  my  friend.  The  woman  must  not,  on  any  account, 
be  suffered  to  come  near  me." 

Of  course  there  was  no  signature.  Mrs.  Bray's  coun 
tenance  was  radiant  as  she  fingered  the  money. 

"  Good  luck  for  me,  but  bad  for  the  baby,"  she  said,  in 
a  low,  pleased  murmur,  talking  to  herself.  "  Poor  baby ! 
I  must  see  better  to  its  comfort.  It  deserves  to  be  looked 
after.  I  wonder  why  Pinky  doesn't  come  ?" 

Mrs.  Bray  listened,  but  no  sound  of  feet  from  the  stairs 
or  entries,  no  opening  or  shutting  of  doors,  broke  the  si 
lence  that  reigned  through  the  house. 

"Pinky's  getting  too  low  down — drinks  too  much; 
can't  count  on  her  any  more."  Mrs.  Bray  went  on  talking 
to  herself.  "  No  rest ;  no  quiet ;  never  satisfied ;  for  ever 
knocking  round,  an  i  for  ever  getting  the  worst  of  it.  She 
was  a  real  nice  gir.  once,  and  I  always  liked  her.  But 
i>c  doesn't  take  any  care  of  herself." 

117 


118  CAST  ADRIFT. 

As  Pioky  went  out,  an  hour  before,  she  met  a  fresh 
looking  girl,  not  over  seventeen,  and  evidently  from  th<§ 
country.  She  was  standing  on  the  pavement,  not  far 
from  the  house  in  which  Mrs.  Bray  lived,  and  had  a 
traveling-bag  in  her  hand.  Her  perplexed  face  and  un 
certain  manner  attracted  Pinky's  attention. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  anybody  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  trying  to  find  a  Mrs.  Bray,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  I'm  a  stranger  from  the  country." 

"  Oh,  you  are  ?"  said  Pinky,  drawing  her  veil  more 
tightly,  so  that  her  disfigured  face  could  not  be  seen. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  from  L ." 

"  Indeed  ?    I  used  to  know  some  people  there." 

"  Then  you've  been  in  L ?"  said  the  girl,  with  a 

pleased,  trustful  manner,  as  of  one  who  had  met  a  friend 
at  the  right  time. 

"  Yes,  I've  visited  there." 

"  Indeed  ?    Who  did  you  know  in  L ?" 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  Cartwrights ?" 

"  I  know  of  them.  They  are  among  our  first  people," 
returned  the  girl. 

"  I  spent  a  week  in  their  family  a  few  years  ago,  and 
had  a  very  pleasant  time,"  said  Pinky. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  to  know  that,"  remarked  the  girl.  "  I'm 
a  stranger  here ;  and  if  I  can't  find  Mrs.  Bray,  I  don't  see 
fyhat  I  am  to  do.  A  lady  from  here  who  was  staying  at 
the  hotel  gave  me  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Bray.  I  was  living  at 
the  hotel,  but  I  didn't  like  it ;  it  was  too  public.  I  told 
the  kdy  that  I  wanted  to  learn  a  trade  or  get  into  a  store, 
and  ahe  said  the  city  was  just  the  place  for  me,  and  that 


CAST  ADRIFT.  119 

ehe  would  give  me  a  letter  to  a  particular  friend,  who 
would,  on  her  recommendation,  interest  herself  for  me. 
It's  somewhere  along  here  that  she  lived,  I'm  sure ;"  and 
she  took  a  letter  from  her  pocket  and  examined  the 
direction. 

The  girl  was  fresh  and  young  and  pretty,  and  had  an 
artless,  confiding  manner.  It  was  plain  she  knew  little 
of  the  world,  and  nothing  of  its  evils  and  dangers. 

"  Let  me  see ;"  and  Pinky  reached  out  her  hand  for  the 
letter.  She  put  it  under  her  veil,  and  read, 

"  MRS.  FANNY  BRAY, 

"  No.  631 street, 

"  By  the  hand  of  Miss  Flora  Bond." 

"  Flora  Bond,"  said  Pinky,  in  a  kind,  familiar  tone. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  replied  the  girl ;  "  isn't  thia 
street?" 

"  Yes ;  and  there  is  the  number  you  are  looking  for." 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  I'm  so  glad  to  find  the  place.  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  scared." 

"  I  will  ring  the  bell  for  you,"  said  Pinky,  going  to  the 
door  of  No.  631.  A  servant  answered  the  summons. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Bray  at  home  ?"  inquired  Pinky. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  servant,  looking  annoyed. 
»'  Her  rooms  are  in  the  third  story ;"  and  she  held  the 
door  wide  open  for  them  to  enter.  As  they  passed  into 
the  hall  Pinky  said  to  her  companion, 

"  Just  wait  here  a  moment,  and  I  will  run  up  stairs  and 
9Pe  if  she  is  in.' 


120  CAST  ADRIFT. 

The  girl  stood  in  the  hall  until  Pinky  came  back. 

"  Not  at  home,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  Oh  dear !  that's  bad ;  what  shall  I  do  ?"  and  the  girl 
looked  distressed. 

"  She'll  be  back  soon,  no  doubt,"  said  Pinky,  in  a  light, 
assuring  voice.  "  I'll  go  around  with  you  a  little  and  see 
things." 

The  girl  looked  down  at  her  traveling-bag. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing;  I'll  help  you  to  carry  it;"' and 
Pinky  took  it  from  her  hand. 

"  Couldn't  we  leave  it  here  ?"  asked  Flora. 

"  It  might  not  be  safe ;  servants  are  not  always  to  be 
trusted,  and  Mrs.  Bray's  rooms  are  locked ;  we  can  easily 
carry  it  between  us.  I'm  strong — got  good  country 
blood  in  my  veins.  You  see  I'm  from  the  country  as  well 
as  you ;  right  glad  we  met.  Don't  know  what  you  would 
have  done." 

And  she  drew  the  girl  out,  talking  familiarly,  as  they 
went. 

"  Haven't  had  your  dinner  yet  ?" 

"  No  ;  just  arrived  in  the  cars,  and  came  right  here." 

"You  must  have  something  to  eat,  then.  I  know  a 
nice  place ;  often  get  dinner  there  when  I'm  out." 

The  girl  did  not  feel  wholly  at  ease.  She  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  get  sight  of  Pinky's  closely-veiled  features, 
and.  there  was  something  in  her  voice  that  made  hei 
feel  uncomfortable. 

"  I  don't  care  for  any  dinner,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  nol 
hungry." 

"  Well,  I  am,  then ;  so  come.     Do  you  like  oysters?'' 


CAST  ADRIFT.  121 

"Yes." 

"  Cook  them  splendidly.  Best  place  in  the  city.  And 
you'd  like  to  gut  into  a  store  or  learn  a  trade  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  What  trade  did  you  think  of?" 

"  None  in  particular." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  get  into  a  book-bindery  ?  I 
know  two  or  three  girls  in  binderies,  and  they  can  make 
from  five  to  ten  dollars  a  week.  It's  the  nicest,  cleanest 
work  I  know  of." 

*  Oh,  do  you  ?"  returned  Flora,  with  newly-awakening 
interest.  ,  . 

"  Yes ;  we'll  talk  it  all  over  while  we're  eating  dinner. 
This  way." 

And  Pinky  turned  the  corner  of  a  small  street  that 
led  away  from  the  more  crowded  thoroughfare  along 
which  they  had  been  passing. 

"  It's  a  quiet  and  retired  place,  where  only  the  nicest 
kind  of  people  go,"  she  added.  "  Many  working-girl ^ 
and  girls  in  stores  get  their  dinners  there.  We'll  meet 
some  of  them ,  no  doubt ;  and  if  any  that  I  know  should 
happen  in,  we  might  hear  of  a  good  place.  Just  the 
thing,  isn't  it  ?  I'm  right  glad  I  met  you." 

They  had  gone  halfway  down  the  square,  when  Pinky 
stopped  before  the  shop  of  a  confectioner.  In  the  win 
dow  was  a  display  of  cakes,  pies  and  candies,  and  a  sign 
with  the  words,  "  LADIES'  RESTAURANT." 

"  This  is  the  place, '  she  said,  and  opening  the  door, 
passed  in,  the  young  stranger  following. 

A  sign  of  caution,  unseen  by  Flora,  was  made  to  a 
11 


122  CAST  ADRIFT. 

girl  who  stood  behind  the  counter.  Then  Pinky  turned, 
saying, 

"How  will  you  have  your  oysters?  stewed,  fried, 
broiled  or  roasted  ?" 

"  I'm  not  particular — any  way,"  replied  Flora. 

"I  like  them  fried.  Will  you  have  them  the  same 
way?" 

Flora  nodded  assent. 

"  Let  them  be  fried,  then.  Come,  we'll  go  up  stairs 
Anybody  there?" 

"  Two  or  three  only." 

"  Any  girls  from  the  bindery  ?" 

"Yes;  I  think  so." 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  of  that !  Want  to  see  some  of  them. 
Come,  Miss  Bond." 

And  Pinky,  after  a  whispered  word  to  the  attendant, 
led  the  way  to  a  room  up  stairs  in  which  were  a  number 
of  small  tables.  At  one  of  these  were  two  girls  eating, 
at  another  a  girl  sitting  by  herself,  and  at  another  a 
young  man  and  a  girl.  As  Pinky  and  her  companion 
entered,  the  inmates  of  the  room  stared  at  them  famil 
iarly,  and  then  winked  and  leered  at  each  other.  Flora 
did  not  observe  this,  but  she  felt  a  sudden  oppression  and 
fear.  They  sat  down  at  a  table  not  far  from  one  of  +he 
windows.  Flora  looked  for  the  veil  to  be  removed,  so 
that  she  might  see  the  face  of  her  new  friend.  But 
Pinky  kept  it  closely  down. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  oysters  were  served.  Accom 
panying  them  were  two  glasses  of  some  kind  of  Kquor. 
Floating  on  one  of  these  was  a  small  bit  of  cork.  Pinky 


CAST  ADRIFT.  123 

took  tliia  and  handed  the  other  to  her  companion,  say 
ing, 

"  Only  a  weak  sangaree.  It  will  refresh  you  after  your 
fatigue;  and  I  always  like  something  with  oysters,  it 
helps  to  make  them  lay  lighter  on  the  stomach." 

Meantime,  one  of  the  girls  had  crossed  over  and  spoken 
to  Pinky.  After  a  word  or  two,  the  latter  said, 

"  Don't  you  work  in  a  bindery,  Miss  Peter  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  answered,  without  hesitation. 

"  I  thought  so.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friend, 
Miss  Flora  Bond.  She's  from  the  country,  and  wants  to 
get  into  some  good  establishment.  She  talked  about  a 
store,  but  I  think  a  bindery  is  better." 

"A  great  deal  better,"  was  replied  by  Miss  Peter. 
"  I've  tried  them  both,  and  wouldn't  go  back  to  a  store 
again  on  any  account.  If  I  can  serve  your  friend,  I  shalJ 
be  most  happy." 

"  Thank  you !"  returned  Flora ;  "  you  are  very  kind/ 

"  Not  at  all;  I'm  always  glad  when  I  can  be  of  service 
to  any  one.  You  think  you'd  like  to  go  into  a  bindery?" 

"  Yes.  I've  come  to  the  city  to  get  employment,  and 
haven't  much  choice." 

"  There's  no  place  like  the  city,"  remarked  the  other. 
'< I'd  die  in  the  country — nothing  going  on.  But  you 
won't  stagnate  here.  When  did  you  arrive  ?" 

"  To-day." 

"  Have  you  friends  here  ?" 

"  No.  I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  lady  who 
resides  in  the  city." 

"What's  her  name?" 


124  CAST  ADRIFT. 

«  Mrs.  Bray." 

Miss  Peter  turned  her  head  so  that  Flora  could  not  8fe« 
her  face.  It  was  plain  from  its  expression  that  she  knew 
Mrs.  Bray. 

"  Have  you  seen  ner  yet  ?"  she  asked. 

"  No.  She  was  out  when  I  called.  I'm  going  back  ill 
a  little  while." 

The  girl  sat  down,  and  went  on  talking  while  the  others 
were  eating.  Pinky  had  emptied  her  glass  of  sangaree 
before  she  was  half  through  with  her  oysters,  and  kept 
urging  Flora  to  drink. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  it,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  kind,  per 
suasive  way;  "there's  hardly  a  thimbleful  of  wine  in 
the  whole  glass.  It  will  soothe  your  nerves,  and  make 
you  feel  ever  so  much  better." 

There  was  something  in  the  taste  of  the  sangaree  that 
Flora  did  not  like — a  flavor  that  was  not  of  wine.  But 
urged  repeatedly  by  her  companion,  whose  empty  glass 
gave  her  encouragement  and  confidence,  she  sipped  and 
drank  until  she  had  taken  the  whole  of  it.  By  this  time 
she  was  beginning  to  have  a  sense  of  fullness  and  con  • 
fusion  in  the  head,  and  to  feel  oppressed  and  uncomfort- 
able.  Her  appetite  suddenly  left  her,  and  she  laid  down 
her  knife  and  fork  and  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Pinky. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  only  my  head  feels  a 
little  strangely.  It  will  pass  off  in  a  moment." 

"  Riding  in  the  cars,  maybe,"  said  Pinky.  "  I  always 
feel  bad  after  being  in  the  cars ;  it  kind  of  stirs  me  up." 

Flora  sat  very  quietly  at  the  table,  still  resting  her  head 


CAST  ADRIFT.  125 

upon  her  hands.  Pinky  antl  the  girl  whv  had  joined 
them  exchanged  looks  of  intelligence.  The  former  had 
drawn  her  veil  partly  aside,  yet  concealing  as  much  as 
possible  the  bruises  on  her  face. 

"  My !  but  you're  battered  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Peter,  ID 
a  whisper  that  was  unheard  by  Flora. 

Pinky  only  answered  by  a  grimace.  Then  she  said  to 
Flora,  with  well-affected  concern, 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  ill,  dear  ?     How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  poor  girl,  in  a  voice  that 
betrayed  great  anxiety,  if  not  alarm.  "  It  came  over  me 
all  at  once.  I'm  afraid  that  wine  was  too  strong ;  I  am 
not  used  to  taking  anything." 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  it  wasn't  that.  I  drank  a  glass,  and 
don't  feel  it  any  more  than  if  it  had  been  water." 

"  Let's  go,"  said  Flora,  starting  up.  "  Mrs.  Bray  must 
be  home  by  this  time." 

"  All  right,  if  you  feel  well  enough,"  returned  Pinky , 
rising  at  the  same  time. 

"Oh  dear!  how  my  head  swims!"  exclaimed  Flora, 
putting  both  hands  to  her  temples.  She  stood  for  a  few 
moments  in  an  uncertain  attitude,  then  reached  out  in  a 
blind,  eager  way. 

Pinky  drew  quickly  to  her  side,  and  put  one  arm  about 
her  waist. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  the  air  is  too  close  for  you  here ;" 
and  with  the  assistance  of  the  girl  who  had  joined  them, 
she  steadied  Flora  down  stairs. 

"Doctored  a  little  too  high,"  whispered  Miss  Peter, 
with  her  mouth  close  to  Pinky's  ear. 
11* 


126  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  All  right,"  Pinky  whispered  back ;  "  they  know  ho* 
to  do  it." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Pinky  said, 

"  You  take  her  out  through  the  yard,  while  I  pay  for 
the  oysters.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

Poor  Flora  was  already  too  much  confused  by  the 
drugged  liquor  she  had  taken  to  know  what  they  were 
doing  with  her. 

Hastily  paying  for  the  oysters  and  liquor,  Pinky  was 
on  hand  in  a  few  moments.  From  the  back  door  of 
the  house  they  entered  a  small  yard,  and  passed  from 
this  through  a  gate  into  a  narrow  private  alley  shut  in 
on  each  side  by  a  high  fence.  This  alley  ran  for  a  con 
siderable  distance,  and  had  many  gates  opening  into  it 
from  yards,  hovels  and  rear  buildings,  all  of  the  most 
forlorn  and  wretched  character.  It  terminated  in  a 
nmall  street. 

Along  this  alley  Pinky  and  the  girl  she  had  met  at 
the  restaurant  supported  Flora,  who  was  fast  losing 
strength  and  consciousness.  When  halfway  down,  they 
held  a  brief  consultation. 

"It  won't  do,"  said  Pinky,  "to  take  her  through  to 

street.  She's  too  far  gone,  and  the  police  will  be 

down  on  us  and  carry  her  off." 

"  Norah's  got  some  place  in  there,"  said  the  other,  point- 
ing  to  an  old  wooden  building  close  by. 

"  I'm  out  with  Norah,"  replied  Pinky,  "  and  don't  mean 
to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  her." 

"  Where's  your  room  ?" 

"  That  isn't  the  go.     Don't  want  her  there.     Pat  Ma 


CAST  ADRIFT.  127 

ley's  cellar  is  just  over  yonder.  We  can  get  in  from  the 
alley." 

"Pat's  too  greedy  a  devil.  There  wouldn't  be  any 
thing  left  of  her  when  he  got  through.  No,  no,  Pinky ; 
I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  if  she's  to  go  into  Pat 
Haley's  cellar." 

"  Not  much  to  choose  between  'em,"  answered  Pinky. 
"  But  it  won't  do  to  parley  here.  We  must  get  her  in 
somewhere." 

And  she  pushed  open  a  gate  as  she  spoke.  It  swung 
back  on  one  hinge  and  struck  the  fence  with  a  bang, 
disclosing  a  yard  that  beggared  description  in  its  disor 
der  and  filth.  In  the  back  part  of  this  yard  was  a  one- 
and-a-half-story  frame  building,  without  windows,  look 
ing  more  like  an  old  chicken-house  or  pig-stye  than  a 
place  for  human  beings  to  live  in.  The  loft  over  the 
first  story  was  reached  by  a  ladder  on  the  outside.  Above 
and  below  the  hovel  was  laid  off  in  kind  of  stalls  or 
bunks  furnished  with  straw.  There  were  about  twenty 
of  these.  It  was  a  ten-cent  lodging-house,  filled  nightly. 
If  this  wretched  hut  or  stye — call  it  what  you  will — had 
been  torn  down,  it  would  not  have  brought  ten  dollars  as 
kindling-wood.  Yet  its  owner,  a  gentleman  (?)  living 
handsomely  up  town,  received  for  it  the  annual  rent  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Subletted  at  an  average 
of  two  dollars  a  night,  it  gave  an  income  of  nearly  seven 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  It  was  known  as  the  "  Hawk's 
Nest,"  and  no  bird  of  prey  ever  had  a  fouler  nest  than 
ihis. 

As  the  gate  banged  on  the  fence  a  coarse,  evil-looking 


128  CAST  ADRIFT. 

man,  wearing  a  dirty  Scotch  cap  and  a  red  shirt,  pushed 
his  head  up  from  the  cellar  of  the  house  that  fronted  or 
the  street. 

"  What's  wanted  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  kind  of  growl,  his 
upper  lip  twitching  and  drawing  up  at  one  side  in  a  ner 
vous  way,  letting  his  teeth  appear. 

"  We  want  to  get  this  girl  in  for  a  little  while,"  said 
Pinky.  "We'll  take  her  away  when  she  comes  round. 
Is  anybody  in  there  ?"  and  she  pointed  to  the  hovel. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  How  much  ?"  asked  Pinky. 

"  Ten  cents  apiece ;"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Pinky  gave  him  thirty  cents.  He  took  a  key  from  his 
pocket,  and  opened  the  door  that  led  into  the  lower  room. 
The  stench  that  came  out  as  the  door  swung  back  was 
dreadful.  But.  poor  Flora  Bond  was  by  this  time  so 
relaxed  in  every  muscle,  and  so  dead  to  outward  things, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  get  her  any  farther.  So  they 
bore  her  into  this  horrible  den,  and  laid  her  down  in  one 
of  the  stalls  on  a  bed  of  loose  straw.  Inside,  there  was 
nothing  but  these  stalls  and  straw — not  a  table  or  chair, 
or  any  article  of  furniture.  They  filled  up  nearly  the 
pntire  room,  leaving  only  a  narrow  passage  between  them. 
The  only  means  of  ventilation  was  by  the  door. 

As  soon  as  Pinky  and  her  companion  in  this  terrible 
wickedness  were  alone  with  their  victim,  they  searched 
her  pocket  for  the  key  of  her  traveling-bag.  On  finding 
it,  Pinky  was  going  to  open  it,  when  the  other  said, 

"  Never  mind  about  that ;  we  can  examine  her  baggage 
:n  a  safer  place.  Let's  go  for  the  movables." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  129 

And  saying  this,  she  fell  quickly  to  work  on  the  person 
i>f  Flora*  slipping  out  the  ear-rings  first,  then  removing 
her  breast-pin  and  finger-rings,  while  Pinky  unbuttoned 
the  new  gaiter  boots,  and  drew  off  both  boots  and  stock- 
ings,  leaving  upon  the  damp  straw  the  small,  bare  feet, 
pink  and  soft  almost  as  a  baby's. 

It  did  not  take  these  harpies  five  minutes  to  possess 
themselves  of  everything  but  the  poor  girl's  dress  and 
undergarments.  Cloth  oversack,  pocket-book,  collar,  linen 
cnffs,  hat,  shoes  and  stockings — all  these  were  taken. 

"  Hallo !"  cried  the  keeper  of  this  foul  den  as  the  two 
girls  hurried  out  with  the  traveling-bag  and  a  large  bun 
dle  sooner  than  he  had  expected ;  and  he  came  quickly 
forth  from  the  cellar  in  which  he  lived  like  a  cruel  spider 
and  tried  to  intercept  them,  but  they  glided  through  the 
gate  and  were  out  of  his  reach  before  he  could  get  near. 
He  could  follow  them  only  with  obscene  invectives  and 
horrible  oaths.  Well  he  knew  what  had  been  done — that 
there  had  been  a  robbery  in  the  "  Hawk's  Nest,"  and  he 
not  in  to  share  the  booty. 

Growling  like  a  savage  dog,  this  wretch,  in  whom  every 
instinct  of  humanity  had  long  since  died — this  human 
neast,  who  looked  on  innocence  and  helplessness  as  a  wolf 
looks  upon  a  lamb — strode  across  the  yard  and  entered  the 
den.  Lying  in  one  of  the  stalls  upon  the  foul,  damp 
straw  he  found  Flora  Bond.  Cruel  beast  that  he  was, 
even  he  felt  himself  held  back  as  by  an  invisible  hand, 
«£  he  looked  at  the  pure  face  of  the  insensible  girl. 
Rarely  had  his  eyes  rested  on  a  countenance  so  full  of 
innocence.  But  the  wolf  has  no  pity  for  the  lamb,  nor 

I 


130  CAST  ADRIFT. 

the  hawk  for  the  dove.  The  instinct  of  his  nature  quick!) 
asserted  itself. 

Avarice  first.  From  the  face  his  eyes  turned  to  see 
i;  hat  had  been  left  by  the  two  girls.  An  angry  impreca 
tion  fell  from  his  lips  when  he  saw  how  little  remained 
for  him.  But  when  he  lifted  Flora's  head  and  unbound 
her  hair,  a  gleam  of  pleasure  came  into  his  foul  face.  It 
was  a  full  suit  of  rich  chestnut  brown,  nearly  three  feet 
long,  and  fell  in  thick  masses  over  her  breast  and  shoul 
ders.  He  caught  it  up  eagerly,  drew  it  through  his  great 
ugly  hands,  and  gloated  over  it  with  something  of  a 
miser's  pleasure  as  he  counts  his  gold.  Then  taking  i\ 
pair  of  scissors  from  his  pocket,  he  ran  them  over  the 
girl's  head  with  the  quickness  and  skill  of  a  barber,  cut 
ting  close  down,  that  he  might  not  lose  even  the  sixteenth 
part  of  an  inch  of  her  rich  tresses.  An  Indian  scalping 
his  victim  could  not  have  shown  more  eagerness.  An  In 
dian's  wild  pleasure  was  in  his  face  as  he  lifted  the  heavy 
mass  of  brown  hair  and  held  it  above  his  head.  It  waa 
not  a  trophy — not  a  sign  of  conquest  and  triumph  over  an 
enemy — but  simply  plunder,  and  had  a  market  value  of 
fifteen  or  twenty  dollars. 

The  dress  was  next  examined ;  it  was  new,  but  not  of  a 
costly  material.  Removing  this,  the  man  went  out  with 
his  portion  of  the  spoils,  and  locked  the  door,  leaving  the 
half-clothed,  unconscious,  girl  lying  on  the  damp,  filthy 
straw,  that  swarmed  with  vermin.  It  was  cold  as  well  as 
damp,  and  the  chill  of  a  bleak  November  day  began 
creeping  into  her  warm  blood.  But  the  stupefying  draught 
bad  been  well  compounded,  and  held  her  senses  locked. 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB, 


See  page  130 


CAST  ADRIFT.  1 

Of  what  followed  we  cannot  write,  and  we  shiver  as 
we  draw  a  veil  over  scenes  that  should  make  the  heart  of 
all  Christendom  ache — scenes  that  are  repeated  in  thou 
sands  of  instances  year  by  year  in  our  large  cities,  and 
no  hand  is  stretched  forth  to  succor  and  no  arm  to  save. 
Under  the  very  eyes  of  the  courts  and  the  churches 
things  worse  than  we  have  described — worse  than  the 
reader  can  imagine — are  done  every  day.  The  foul  dens 
into  which  crime  goes  freely,  and  into  which  innocence  is 
betrayed,  are  known  to  the  police,  and  the  evil  work  that 
is  done  is  ever  before  them.  From  one  victim  to  another 
their  keepers  pass  unquestioned,  and  plunder,  debauch, 
ruin  and  murder  with  an  impunity  frightful  to  contem 
plate.  As  was  said  by  a  distinguished  author,  speaking 
of  a  kindred  social  enormity,  "  There  is  not  a  country 
throughout  the  earth  on  which  a  state  of  things  like  this 
would  not  bring  a  curse.  There  is  no  religion  upon 
earth  that  it  would  not  deny ;  there  is  no  people  on  earth 
that  it  would  not  put  to  shame." 

And  we  are  Christians ! 

No.  Of  what  followed  we  cannot  write.  Those  who 
were  near  the  "  Hawk's  Nest "  heard  that  evening,  soon 
after  nightfall,  the  single  wild,  prolonged  cry  of  a  woman. 
It  was  so  full  of  terror  and  despair  that  even  the  hard 
ened  ears  that  heard  it  felt  a  sudden  pain.  But  they 
were  used  to  such  things  in  that  region,  and  no  one  took 
the  trouble  to  learn  what  it  meant.  Even  the  policeman 
moving  on  his  beat  stood  listening  for  only  a  moment,  and 
then  passed  on. 


132  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Next  day,  in  the  local  columns  of  a  city  paper,  appeared 
the  following : 

"FouL  PLAY. — About  eleven  o'clock  last  night  the 
body  of  a  beautiful  young  girl,  who  could  not  have  been 
over  seventeen  years  of  age,  was  discovered  lying  on  the 

pavement  in street.  No  one  knew  how  she  came 

there.  She  was  quite  dead  when  found.  There  was  noth 
ing  by  which  she  could  be  identified.  All  her  clothes 
but  a  single  undergarment  had  been  removed,  and  her 
hair  cut  off  close  to  her  head.  There  were  marks  of 
brutal  violence  on  her  person.  The  body  was  placed  in 
charge  of  the  coroner,  who  will  investigate  the  matter." 

On  the  day  after,  this  paragraph  appeared  : 

"SUSPICION  OF  FOUL  PLAY. — The  coroner's  inquest 
elicited  nothing  in  regard  to  the  young  girl  mentioned 
yesterday  as  having  been  found  dead  and  stripped  of 

her  clothing  in street.  No  one  was  able  to  identify 

her.  A  foul  deed  at  which  the  heart  shudders  has  been 
done ;  but  the  wretches  by  whom  it  was  committed  have 
been  able  to  cover  their  tracks." 

And  that  was  the  last  of  it.  The  whole  nation  gives 
a  shudder  of  fear  at  the  announcement  of  an  Indian  mas 
sacre  and  outrage.  But  in  all  our  large  cities  are  sav 
ages  more  cruel  and  brutal  in  their  instincts  than  the 
Comanches,  and  they  torture  and  outrage  and  murder  a 
hundred  poor  victims  for  every  one  that  is  exposed  to 
Indian  brute-lity,  and  there  comes  no  succor.  Is  it  from 
ignorance  of  the  fact?  No,  no,  no!  There  is  not  a 
judge  on  the  bench,  not  a  lawyer  at  the  bar,  not  a  legis- 
'ator  at  the  State  capital,  not  a  mayor  or  police-officer, 


CAST  ADRIFT.  133 

ttot  a  minister  who  preaches  the  gospel  of  Christ,  who 
came  to  seek  arid  to  save,  not  an  intelligent  citizen,  but 
knows  of  all  this. 

What  then  ?  Who  is  responsible  ?  The  whole  nation 
arouses  itself  at  news  of  an  Indian  assault  upon  some 
defenceless  frontier  settlement,  and  the  general  govern 
ment  sends  troops  to  succor  and  to  punish.  But  who 
takes  note  of  the  worse  than  Indian  massacres  going  on 
daily  and  nightly  in  the  heart  of  our  great  cities  ?  Who 
hunts  down  and  punishes  the  human  wolves  in  our  midst 
whose  mouths  are  red  with  the  blood  of  innocence? 
Their  deeds  of  cruelty  outnumber  every  year  a  hundred 
— nay,  a  thousand — fold  the  deeds  of  our  red  savages. 
Their  haunts  are  known,  and  their  work  is  known. 
They  lie  in  wait  for  the  unwary,  they  gather  in  the  price 
of  human  souls,  none  hindering,  at  our  very  church 
doors.  Is  no  one  responsible  for  all  this  ?  Is  there  ao 
help?  Is  evil  stronger  than  good,  hell  stronger  than 
heaven  ?  Have  the  churches  nothing  to  do  in  this  mat 
ter?  Christ  came  to  seek  and  to  save  that  which  was 
lost — came  to  the  lowliest,  the  poorest  and  the  vilest, 
to  those  over  whom  devils  had  gained  power,  and  cast  out 
the  devils.  Are  those  who  call  themselves  by  his  name 
diligent  in  the  work  to  which  he  put  his  blessed  hands  ? 
Millions  of  dollars  go  yearly  into  magnificent  churches, 
but  how  little  to  the  work  of  saving  and  succoring  the 
weak,  the  helpless,  the  betrayed,  the  outcast  and  the 
dying,  who  lie  uncared  for  at  the  mercy  of  human  fiends, 
and  often  so  near  to  the  temples  of  God  that  their  agonized 
ippeals  for  help  are  drowned  by  the  organ  and  choir  I 
12 


CHAPTER  IX. 

two  girls,  on  leaving  the  "Hawk's  Nest"  with 
their  plunder,  did  not  pass  from  the  narrow  private 
alley  into  the  small  street  at  its  termination,  but  hurried 
along  the  way  they  had  come,  and  re-entered  the  restau 
rant  by  means  of  the  gate  opening  into  the  yard.  Through 
tne  back  door  they  gained  a  small,  dark  room,  from  which 
a  narrow  stairway  led  to  the  second  and  third  stories  of 
the  rear  building.  They  seemed  to  be  entirely  familiar 
with  the  place. 

On  reaching  the  third  story,  Pinky  gave  two  quick 
raps  and  then  a  single  rap  on  a  closed  door.  No  move 
ment  being  heard  within,  she  rapped  again,  reversing  the 
order — that  is,  giving  one  distinct  rap,  and  then  two  in 
quick  succession.  At  this  the  door  came  slowly  open,  and 
the  two  girls  passed  in  with  their  bundle  of  clothing  and 
the  traveling-bag. 

The  occupant  of  this  room  was  a  small,  thin,  well- 
dressed  man,  with  cold,  restless  gray  eyes  and  the  air  of 
one  who  was  alert  and  suspicious.  His  hair  was  streaked 
with  gray,  as  were  also  his  full  beard  and  moustache.  A 
diamond  pin  of  considerable  value  was  in  his  shirt  bosom. 
The  room  contained  but  few  articles.  There  was  a  worn 
and  faded  carpet  on  the  floor,  a  writing-table  and  two  or 
chairs,  and  a  small  bookcase  with  a  few  books,  buf 
134 


CAST  ADRIFT.  13£ 

no  evidence  whatever  of  business — not  a  box  or  bundk 
or  article  of  merchandise  was  to  be  seen. 

As  the  two  girls  entered  he  shut  the  door  noiselessly, 
and  turned  the  key  inside.  Then  his  manner  changed , 
his  eyes  lighted,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  interest 
in  his  fa  je.  He  looked  toward  the  bag  and  bundle. 

Pinky  sat  down  upon  the  floor  and  hurriedly  unlocked 
the  traveling-bag.  Thrusting  in  her  hand,  she  drew  out 
first  a  muslin  nightgown  and  threw  it  down,  then  a  light 
shawl,  a  new  barege  dress,  a  pair  of  slippers,  collars, 
cuffs,  ribbons  and  a  variety  of  underclothing,  and  last  of 
all  a  small  Bible  and  a  prayer-book.  These  latter  she 
tossed  from  her  with  a  low  derisive  laugh,  which  was 
echoed  by  her  companion,  Miss  Peter. 

The  bundle  was  next  opened,  and  the  cloth  sacque, 
the  hat,  the  boots  and  stockings  and  the  collar  and  cuffa 
thrown  upon  the  floor  with  the  contents  of  the  bag. 

"  How  much  ?"  asked  Pinky,  glancing  up  at  the  man. 

They  were  the  first  words  that  had  been  spoken.  At  this 
the  man  knit  his  brows  in  an  earnest  way,  and  looked 
business.  He  lifted  each  article  from  the  floor,  examined 
it  carefully  and  seemed  to  be  making  a  close  estimate  of 
its  value.  The  traveling-bag  was  new,  and  had  cost  prob 
ably  five  dollars.  The  cloth  sacque  could  not  have  been 
made  for  less  than  twelve  dollars.  A  fair  valuation  of 
the  whole  would  have  been  near  forty  dollars. 

"  How  much  ?"  repeated  Pinky,  an  impatient  quiver  iu 
her  voice. 

"  Six  dollars,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Six  devils !"  exclaimed  Pinky,  in  a  loud,  angry  voice. 


130  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Six  devils !  you  old  swindler !"  chimed  in  Miss  Peter 

"  You  can  take  them  away.  Just  as  you  like,"  returned 
the  man,  with  cool  indifference.  "  Perhaps  the  police  wiU 
give  you  more.  It's  the  best  I  can  do." 

"  But  see  here,  Jerkin,"  said  Pinky :  "  that  sacque  ia 
worth  twice  the  money." 

"  Not  to  me.  I  haven't  a  store  up  town.  I  can't  offer 
it  for  sale  in  the  open  market.  Don't  you  understand  ?" 

"  Say  ten  dollars." 

"Six." 

"  Here's  a  breast-pin  and  a  pair  of  ear-rings,"  said  Miss 
Peter ;  "  we'll  throw  them  in  ;"  and  she  handed  Jerkin,  as 
he  was  called,  the  bits  of  jewelry  she  had  taken  from  the 
person  of  Flora  Bond.  He  looked  at  them  almost  con 
temptuously  as  he  replied, 

"  Wouldn't  give  you  a  dollar  for  the  set." 

"  Say  eight  dollars  for  the  whole,"  urged  Pinky. 

"  Six  fifty,  and  not  a  cent  more,"  answered  Jerkin. 

u  Hand  over,  then,  you  old  cormorant !"  returned  the 
girl,  fretfully.  "  It's  a  shame  to  swindle  us  in  this  way." 

The  man  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  paid  the  money, 
giving  half  to  each  of  the  girls. 

"  It's  just  a  swindle !"  repeated  Pinky.  "  You're  an  old 
hard-fisted  money-grubber,  and  no  better  than  a  robber. 
Three  dollars  and  a  quarter  for  all  that  work !  It  doesn't 
pay  for  the  trouble.  We  ought  to  have  had  ten  apiece." 

"  You  can  make  it  ten  or  twenty,  or  maybe  a  hundred, 
if  you  will,"  said  Jerkin,  with  a  knowing  twinkle  in  hia 
eyes.  He  gave  his  thumb  a  little  movement  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  spoke. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  137 

"  That's  so !"  exclaimed  Pinky,  her  manner  undergoing 
a  change,  and  her  face  growing  bright — at  least  as  much 
of  it  as  could  brighten.  "  Look  here,  Nell,"  speaking  ta 
Miss  Peter,  and  drawing  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  pocket, 
"  I've  got  ten  rows  here.  Fanny  Bray  gave  me  five  dol 
lars  to  go  a  half  on  each  row.  Meant  to  have  gone  to 
Sam  McFaddon's  last  night,  but  got  into  a  muss  with  old 
Sal  and  Norah,  and  was  locked  up." 

"  They  make  ten  hits  up  there  to  one  at  Sam  McFad 
don's,"  said  Jerkin,  again  twitching  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder.  "  It's  the  luckiest  office  I  ever  heard  of.  Two 
or  three  hits  every  day  for  a  week  past — got  a  lucky 
streak,  somehow.  If  you  go  in  anywhere,  take  my  ad 
vice  and  go  in  there,"  lifting  his  hand  and  twitching  his 
thumb  upward  and  over  his  shoulder  again. 

The  two  girls  passed  from  the  room,  and  the  door  waj 
shut  and  locked  inside.  No  sooner  had  they  done  so 
than  Jerkin  made  a  new  examination  of  the  articles, 
and  after  satisfying  himself  as  to  their  value  proceeded 
to  put  them  out  of  sight.  Lifting  aside  a  screen  that 
covered  the  fireplace,  he  removed  from  the  chimney 
back,  just  above  the  line  of  sight,  a  few  loose  bricks,  and 
through  the  hole  thus  made  thrust  the  articles  he  had 
bought,  letting  them  drop  into  a  fireplace  on  the  ether 
side. 

On  leaving  the  room  of  this  professional  receiver  of 
stolen  goods,  Pinky  and  her  friend  descended  to  the  sec 
ond  story,  and  by  a  door  which  had  been  cut  through 
into  the  adjoining  property  passed  to  the  rear  building 
of  the  house  next  door.  They  found  themselves  on  a 
12  » 


138  CAST  ADEIFT. 

landing,  or  little  square  hall,  with  a  stairwaj  passing 
down  to  the  lower  story  and  another  leading  to  the  room 
above.  A  number  of  persons  were  going  up  and  coming 
down — a  forlorn  set,  for  the  most  part,  of  all  sexes,  ages 
and  colors.  Those  who  were  going  up  appeared  eager 
and  hopeful,  while  those  who  were  coming  down  looked 
disappointed,  sorrowful,  angry  or  desperate.  There  was 
a  "policy-shop"  in  one  of  the  rooms  above,  and  these 
were  some  of  its  miserable  customers.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  morning  drawings  of  the  lotteries  were  received 
at  the  office,  or  "  shop,"  and  the  poor  infatuated  dupes 
who  had  bet  on  their  favorite  "  rows "  were  crowding  in 
to  learn  the  result. 

Poor  old  men  and  women  in  scant  or  wretched  cloth 
ing,  young  girls  with  faces  marred  by  evil,  blotched  and 
bloated  creatures  of  both  sexes,  with  little  that  was 
human  in  their  countenances,  except  the  bare  features, 
boys  and  girls  not  yet  in  their  teens,  but  old  in  vice  and 
crime,  and  drunkards  with  shaking  nerves, — all  these  were 
going  up  in  hope  and  coming  down  in  disappointment. 
Here  and  there  was  one  of  a  different  quality,  a  scantily- 
dressed  woman  with  a  thin,  wasted  face  and  hollow  eyes, 
who  had  been  fighting  the  wolf  and  keeping  fast  hold  of 
her  integrity,  or  a  tender,  innocent-looking  girl,  the  mes 
senger  of  a  weak  and  shiftless  mother,  or  a  pale,  bright- 
eyed  boy  whose  much-worn  but  clean  and  well-kept  gar 
ments  gave  sad  evidence  of  a  home  out  of  which  prop  and 
stay  had  been  removed.  The  strong  and  the  weak,  the 
pure  and  the  defiled,  were  there.  A  poor  washerwoman 
<vbo  in  a  moment  of  weakness  has  pawned  the  garments 


CAST  ADRIFT.  139 

entrusted  to  her  care,  that  she  might  venture  upon  a 
"row"  of  which  she  had  dreamed,  comes  shrinking  down 
with  a  pale,  frightened  face,  and  the  bitterness  of  despair 
in  her  heart.  She  has  lost.  What  then  ?  She  has  no 
friend  from  whom  she  can  borrow  enough  money  to 
redeem  the  clothing,  and  if  it  is  not  taken  home,  she  may 
be  arrested  as  a  thief  and  sent  to  prison.  She  goes  away, 
and  tern}  tation  lies  close  at  her  feet.  It  is  her  extremity 
and  the  evil  one's  opportunity.  So  far  she  has  kept  her 
self  pure,  but  the  disgrace  of  a  public  prosecution  and  a 
sentence  to  prison  are  terrible  things  to  contemplate.  She 
is  in  peril  of  her  soul.  God  help  her ! 

Who  is  this  dressed  in  rusty  black  garments  and 
closely  veiled,  who  comes  up  from  the  restaurant,  one  of 
the  convenient  and  unsuspected  entrances  to  this  robber's 
den  ? — for  a  "  policy-shop  "  is  simply  a  robbery  shop,  and 
is  so  regarded  by  the  law,  which  sets  a  penalty  upon  the 
"writer"  and  the  "backer"  as  upon  other  criminals. 
But  who  is  this  veiled  woman  in  faded  mourning  gar 
ments  who  comes  gliding  as  noiselessly  as  a  ghost  out  from 
one  of  the  rooms  of  the  restaurant,  and  along  the  narrow 
entry  leading  to  the  stairway,  now  so  thronged  with  visitors  ? 
Every  day  she  comes  and  goes,  no  one  seeing  her  face,  and 
ever j  day,  with  rare  exceptions,  her  step  is  slower  and  her 
form  visibly  more  shrunken  when  she  goes  out  than  when 
she  comes  iii.  She  is  a  broken-down  gentlewoman,  the 
>idow  of  an  officer,  who  left  her  at  his  death  a  moderate  for 
tune,  and  quite  sufficient  for  the  comfortable  maintenance 
of  herself  and  two  nearly  grown-up  daughters.  But  she 
had  liv^d  at  tho  South,  and  there  acquired  a  taste  for  lot* 


140  CAST  ADRIFT. 

tery  gambling.  During  her  husband's  lifetime  she  wasted 
considerable  money  in  lottery  tickets,  once  or  twice  draw- 
bag  small  prizes,  but  like  all  lottery  dupes  spending  a 
hundred  dollars  for  on<  gained.  The  thing  had  become 
a  sort  of  mania  with  her.  She  thought  so  much  of  prizes 
and  drawn  numbers  through  the  day  that  she  dreamed 
of  them  all  night.  She  had  a  memorandum-book  in 
which  were  all  the  combinations  she  had  ever  heard  of 
as  taking  prizes.  It  contained  page  after  page  of  lucky 
numbers  and  fancy  "  rows,"  and  was  oftener  in  her  hand 
than  any  other  book. 

There  being  no  public  sale  of  lottery  tickets  in  JJTorth- 
ern  cities,  this  weak  and  infatuated  woman  found  out 
where  some  of  the  "  policy-shops "  were  kept,  and  instead 
of  buying  tickets,  as  before,  risked  her  money  on  num 
bers  that  might  or  might  not  come  out  of  the  wheel 
in  lotteries  said  to  be  drawn  in  certain  Southern  States, 
but  chiefly  in  Kentucky.  The  numbers  rarely  if  ever 
came  out.  The  chances  were  too  remote.  After  her 
husband's  death  she  began  fretting  over  the  small- 
ness  of  her  income.  It  was  not  sufficient  to  give  hei 
daughters  the  advantages  she  desired  them  to  have,  and 
she  knew  of  but  one  way  to  increase  it.  That  way  was 
through  the  policy-shops.  So  she  gave  her  whole  mind 
to  this  business,  with  as  much  earnestness  and  self- 
absorption  as  a  merchant  gives  himself  to  trade.  She 
had  a  dream-book,  gotten  up  especially  for  policy  buyers, 
and  consulted  it  as  regularly  as  a  merchant  does  his 
price-current  or  a  broker  the  sales  of  stock.  Every  day 
«he  bet  on  some  "row"  or  series  of  "rows,"  rarely  ven* 


CAST  ADRIFT.  14l 

luring  loss  than  five  dollars,  and  sometimes,  when  she  felt 
more  than  usually  confident,  laying  down  a  twenty-dol 
lar  bill,  for  the  "hit"  when  made  gave  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  dollars  for  each  dollar  put  down,  varying  accord 
ing  to  the  nature  of  the  combinations.  So  the  more  faith 
a  policy  buyer  had  in  his  "  row,"  the  larger  the  venture 
he  would  feel  inclined  to  make. 

Usually  it  went  all  one  way  with  the  infatuated  lady. 
Day  after  day  she  ventured,  and  day  after  day  she  lost, 
until  from  hundreds  the  sums  she  was  spending  had  aggre 
gated  themselves  into  thousands.  She  changed  from  one 
policy  -shop  to  another,  hoping  for  better  luck.  It  was 
her  business  to  find  them  out,  and  this  she  was  able  to 
do  by  questioning  some  of  those  whom  she  met  at  the 
shops.  One  of  these  was  in  a  building  on  a  principal 
street,  the  second  story  of  which  was  occupied  by  a  mil 
liner.  It  was  visited  mostly  by  ladies,  who  could  pass  in 
from  the  street,  no  one  suspecting  their  errand.  Another 
was  in  the  attic  of  a  house  in  which  were  many  offices 
and  places  of  business,  with  people  going  in  and  coming 
out  all  the  while,  none  but  the  initiated  being  in  the 
secret;  while  another  was  to  be  found  in  the  rear  of  a 
photograph  gallery.  Every  day  and  often  twice  a  day, 
as  punctually  as  any  man  of  business,  did  this  lady  make 
her  calls  at  one  and  another  of  these  policy-offices  to  get 
the  drawings  or  make  new  ventures.  At  remote  intervals 
she  would  make  a  "hit;"  once  she  drew  twenty  dollars, 
and  once  fifty.  But  for  these  small  gains  she  had  paid 
thousands  of  dollars. 

A  fter  a  "  hit "  the  betting  on  numbers  would  be  bolder 


142  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Once  she  selected  what  was  known  as  a  "lucky  row/ 
and  determined  to  double  on  it  until  it  came  out  & 
prize.  She  began  by  putting  down  fifty  cents.  On  the 
next  day  she  put  down  a  dollar  upon  the  same  combina 
tion,  losing,  of  course.  Two  dollars  were  ventured  on  the 
next  day ;  and  so  she  went  on  doubling,  until,  in  her  des 
perate  irfatuation,  she  doubled  for  the  ninth  time,  putting 
down  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  dollars. 

If  successful  now,  she  would  draw  over  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars.  There  was  no  sleep  for  the  poor 
lady  during  the  night  that  followed.  She  walked  tho 
floor  of  her  chamber  in  a  state  of  intense  nervous  excite 
ment,  sometimes  in  a  condition  of  high  hope  and  con 
fidence  and  sometimes  haunted  by  demons  of  despair. 
She  sold  five  shares  of  stock  on  which  she  had  been  re 
ceiving  an  annual  dividend  of  ten  per  cent.,  in  order  to 
set  funds  for  this  desperate  gambling  venture,  in  which 
/ver  five  hundred  dollars  had  now  been  absorbed. 

Pale  and  nervous,  she  made  her  appearance  at  the 
Breakfast-table  on  the  next  morning,  unable  to  take  a 
mouthful  of  food.  It  was  in  vain  that  her  anxious 
daughters  urged  her  to  eat. 

A  little  after  twelve  o'clock  she  was  at  the  policy- 
office.  The  drawn  numbers  for  the  morning  were  already 
in.  Her  combination  was  4,  10,  40.  With  an  eagerness 
that  could  not  be  repressed,  she  caught  up  the  slip  of 
paper  containing  the  thirteen  numbers  out  of  seventy- 
five,  which  purported  to  have  been  drawn  that  morning 
somewhere  in  "  Kentucky,"  and  reported  by  telegraph — 
taught  it  up  with  hands  that  shook  so  violently  that  she 


CAST  ADRIFT.  143 

could  not  read  the  figures.  She  had  to  lay  the  piece  of 
paper  down  upon  the  little  counter  before  which  she 
stood,  in  order  that  it  might  be  still,  so  that  she  could 
r^ad  her  fate. 

The  first  drawn  number  was  4.  What  a  wild  leap  her . 
heart  gave !  The  next  was  24 ;  the  next  8 ;  the. next  70- 
the  next  41,  and  the  next  39.  Her  heart  grew  almost 
still ;  the  pressure  as  of  a  great  hand  was  on  her  bosom. 
10  came  next.  Two  numbers  of  her  row  were  out.  A 
quiver  of  excitement  ran  through  her  frame.  She  caught 
up  the  paper,  but  it  shook  as  before,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  the  figures.  Dashing  it  back  upon  the  counter,  and 
holding  it  down  almost  violently,  she  bent  over,  with  eyes 
starting  from  their  sockets,  and  read  the  line  of  figures  to 
the  end,  then  sank  over  upon  the  counter  with  a  groan, 
and  lay  there  half  fainting  and  too  weak  to  lift  herself 
up.  If  the  40  had  been  there,  she  would  have  made  a 
hit  of  twenty -five  thousand  dollars.  But  the  40  was  nol 
there,  and  this  made  all  the  difference. 

"  Once  more,"  said  the  policy-dealer,  in  a  tone  of  en 
couragement,  as  he  bent  over  the  miserable  woman. 
"  Yesterday,  4  came  out ;  to-day,  4,  10 ;  to-morrow  will 
be  the  lucky  chance ;  4,  10,  40  will  surely  be  drawn.  I 
never  knew  this  order  to  fail.  If  it  had  been  10  first,  and 
then  4,  10,  or  10,  4,  I  would  not  advise  you  to  go  on 
But  4,  10,  40  will  be  drawn  to-morrow  as  sure  as  fate." 

"What  numbers  did  you  say?  4,  10,  40?"  asked  an 
old  man,  ragged  and  bloated,  who  came  shuffling  in  as 
the  last  remark  was  made. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  dealer.     "This  lady  has  been 


144  CAST  ADRIFT. 

doubling,  and  as  the  chances  go,  her  row  is  certain  t< 
make  a  hit  to-morrow." 

"Ha!     What's  the  row?    4,10,40?" 

"Yes." 

The  old  man  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  brought  out 
ten  cents. 

"  I'll  go  that  on  the  row.     Give  me  a  piece." 

The  dealer  took  a  narrow  slip  of  paper  and  wrote  on 
it  the  date,  the  sum  risked  and  the  combination  of 
figures,  and  handed  it  to  the  old  man,  saying, 

"  Come  here  to-morrow ;  and  if  the  bottom  of  the  world 
doesn't  drop  out,  you'll  find  ten  dollars  waiting  for  you." 

Two  or  three  others  were  in  by  this  time,  eager  to  look 
over  the  list  of  drawn  numbers  and  to  make  new  bets. 

"Glory!"  cried  one  of  them,  a  vile-looking  young 
woman,  and  she  commenced  dancing  about  the  room. 

All  was  excitement  now.  "A  hit!  a  hit!"  was  cried. 
"  How  much  ?  how  much  ?"  and  they  gathered  to  the  little 
counter  and  desk  of  the  policy-dealer. 

"  1,  2,  3,"  cried  the  girl,  dancing  about  and  waving  hei 
little  slip  of  paper  over  her  head.  "  I  knew  it  would 
come — dreamed  of  them  numbers  three  nights  hand  run 
ning  !  Hand  over  the  money,  old  chap !  Fifteen  dollars 
for  fifteen  cents !  That's  the  go !" 

The  policy-dealer  took  the  girl's  "piece,"  and  aftei 
comparing  it  with  the  record  of  drawn  numbers,  said,  in 
a  pleased  voice, 

"  All  right !   A  hit,  sure  enough.  You're  in  luck  to-day." 

The  girl  took  the  money,  that  was  promptly  paid  down, 
and  as  she  counted  it  over  the  dealer  remark^ 


CAST  ADRIFT.  145 

"There's  a  doubling  game  going  on,  and  it's  to  be  up 
lo-morrow,  sure." 

"  What's  the  row  ?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"  4,  10,  40,"  said  the  dealer. 

"  Then  count  me  in ;"  and  she  laid  down  five  dollars  on 
the  counter. 

"  Take  my  advice  and  go  ten,"  urged  the  policy-dealer. 

"  No,  thank  you !  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  more 
than  five  hundred  dollars.  I'll  only  go  five  dollars  this 
time." 

The  "  writer,"  as  a  policy-seller  is  called,  took  the  money 
and  gave  the  usual  written  slip  of  paper  containing  the 
selected  numbers ;  loudly  proclaiming  her  good  luck,  the 
girl  then  went  away.  She  was  an  accomplice  to  whom  a 
"  piece "  had  been  secretly  given  after  the  drawn  numbers 
were  in. 

Of  course  this  hit  was  the  sensation  of  the  day  among 
the  policy-buyers  at  that  office,  and  brought  in  large 
gains. 

The  wretched  woman  who  had  just  seen  five  hundred 
dollars  vanish  into  nothing  instead  of  becoming,  as  under 
the  wand  of  an  enchanter,  a  great  heap  of  gold,  listened 
in  a  kind  of  maze  to  what  passed  around  her — listened 
and  let  the  tempter  get  to  her  ear  again.  She  went  away, 
Btooping  in  her  gait  as  one  bearing  a  heavy  burden.  Be 
fore  an  hour  had  passed  hope  had  lifted  her  again  into 
confidence.  She  had  to  make  but  one  venture  more,  to 
double  on  the  risk  of  the  day  previous,  and  secure  a  for 
tune  that  would  make  both  herself  and  daughters  inde 
pendent  i  >r  life. 

13  K 


146  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Another  sale  of  good  stocks,  another  gambling  ventum 
and  another  loss,  swelling  the  aggregate  in  this  wild  and 
hopeless  "doubling"  experiment  to  over  a  thousand  dol 
lars. 

But  she  was  not  cured.  As  regularly  as  a  drunkard 
goes  to  the  bar  went  she  to  the  policy-shops,  every  day 
her  fortune  growing  less.  Poverty  began  to  pinch.  The 
house  in  which  she  lived  with  her  daughters  was  sold,  and 
the  unhappy  family  shrunk  into  a  single  room  in  a  third- 
rate  boarding-house.  But  their  income  soon  became  in 
sufficient  to  meet  the  weekly  demand  for  board.  Long 
before  this  the  daughters  had  sought  for  something  to  do 
by  which  to  earn  a  little  money.  Pride  struggled  hard 
with  them,  but  necessity  was  stronger  than  pride. 

We  finish  the  story  in  a  few  words.  In  a  moment  of 
weakness,  with  want  and  hard  work  staring  her  in  the 
face,  one  of  the  daughters  married  a  man  who  broke  her 
heart  and  buried  her  in  less  than  two  years.  The  other, 
a  weak  and  sickly  girl,  got  a  situation  as  day  governess 
in  the  family  of  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  where  she 
was  kindly  treated,  but  she  lived  only  a  short  time  after 
her  sister's  death. 

And  still  there  was  no  abatement  of  the  mother's  in 
fatuation.  She  was  more  than  half  insane  on  the  subject 
of  policy  gambling,  and  confident  of  yet  retrieving  he* 
fortunes. 

At  the  time  Pinky  Swett  and  her  friend  in  evil  saw  her 
come  gliding  up  from  the  restaurant  in  faded  mourning 
garments  and  closely  veiled,  she  was  living  alone  in  a 
imall,  meagrely  furnished  room  and  cooking  her  own  food. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  147 

Everything  left  to  her  at  her  husband's  deatn  was  gone. 
She  earned  a  dollar  or  two  each  week  by  making  shirts 
and  drawers  for  the  slop-shops,  spending  every  cent  of  this 
in  policies.  A  few  old  friends  who  pitied  her,  but  did  not 
know  of  the  vice  in  which  she  indulged,  paid  her  rent  and 
made  occasional  contributions  for  her  support.  All  of 
these  contributions,  beyond  the  amount  required  for  a 
very  limited  supply  of  food,  went  to  the  policy-shops.  It 
was  a  mystery  to  her  friends  how  she  had  managed  to 
waste  the  handsome  property  left  by  her  husband,  but  no 
one  suspected  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"TTTHO'S  that,  I  wonder?"  asked  Nell  Peter  as  the 
»  »  dark,  closely-veiled  figure  glided  past  them  on  the 
stairs. 

"  Oh,  she's  a  policy-drunkard,"  answered  Pinky,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  woman,  who,  as  if  surprised 
or  alarmed,  stopped  and  turned  her  head,  her  veil  falling 
partly  away,  and  disclosing  features  so  pale  and  wasted 
that  she  looked  more  like  a  ghost  than  living  flesh  and 
blood.  There  was  a  strange  gleam  in  her  eyes.  She 
paused  only  for  an  instant,  but  her  steps  were  slower  as 
she  went  on  climbing  the  steep  and  narrow  stairs  that  led 
to  the  policy-office. 

"Good  Gracious,  Pinky!  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
face  ?"  exclaimed  Nell  Peter.  "  It's  a  walking  ghost,  I 
should  say,  and  no  woman  at  all." 

"  Oh,  I've  seen  lots  of  'em,"  answered  Pinky.  "  She's 
a  policy-drunkard.  Bad  as  drinking  when  it  once  gets 
hold  of  'em.  They  tipple  all  the  time,  sell  anything,  beg, 
borrow,  steal  or  starve  themselves  to  get  money  to  buy 
policies.  She's  one  of  'em  that's  starving." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  policy-office.   It  was 

in  a  small  room  on  the  third  floor  of  the  back  building, 

yet  as  well  known  to  the  police  of  the  district  as  if  it  had 

been  on  the  front  street     One  of  these  public  guardians 

148 


CAST  ADRIFT.  149 

«oon  after  his  appointment  through  political  influence, 
and  while  some  wholesome  sense  of  duty  and  moral  re 
sponsibility  yet  remained,  caused  the  "writer"  in  thia 
particular  office  to  be  arrested.  He  thought  that  he  had 
done  a  good  thing,  and  looked  for  approval  and  encour 
agement.  But  to  his  surprise  and  chagrin  he  found  that 
he  had  blundered.  The  case  got  no  farther  than  the  al 
derman's.  Just  how  it  was  managed  he  did  not  know, 
but  it  was  managed,  and  the  business  of  the  office  went 
on  as  before. 

A  little  light  came  to  him  soon  after,  on  meeting  a 
prominent  politician  to  whom  he  was  chiefly  indebted  for 
his  appointment.  Said  this  individual,  with  a  look  of 
warning  and  a  threat  in  his  voice, 

"  See  here,  my  good  fellow ;  I'm  told  that  you've  been 
going  out  of  your  way  and  meddling  with  the  policy- 
dealers.  Take  my  advice,  and  mind  your  own  business, 
If  you  don't,  it  will  be  all  day  with  you.  There  isn't  a 
man  in  town  strong  enough  to  fight  this  thing,  so  you'd 
better  let  it  alone." 

And  he  did  let  it  alone.  He  had  a  wife  and  three  little 
children,  and  couldn't  afford  to  lose  his  place.  So  he 
minded  his  own  business,  and  let  it  alone. 

Pinky  and  her  friend  entered  this  small  third-story 
back  room.  Behind  a  narrow,  unpainted  counter,  having 
a  desk  at  one  end,  stood  a  middle-aged  man,  with  dark, 
restless  eyes  that  rarely  looked  you  in  the  face.  He  wore 
a  thick  but  rather  closely-cut  beard  and  moustache. 
The  police  knew  him  very  well ;  so  did  the  criminal  law 
yers,  when  lie  happened  to  come  in  their  way;  so  did 
13* 


150  CAST  ADRIFT. 

the  officials  of  two  or  three  State  prisons  in  which  h« 
had  served  out  partial  sentences.  He  was  too  valuable 
to  political  "  rings  "  and  associations  antagonistic  to  mora, 
and  social  well-being  to  be  left  idle  in  the  cell  of  a  pcni 
tentiary  for  the  whole  term  of  a  commitment.  Politician: 
have  great  influence,  and  governors  are  human. 

On  the  walls  of  the  room  were  pasted  a  few  pictures 
cut  from  the  illustrated  papers,  some  of  them  portraits  of 
leading  politicians,  and  some  of  them  portraits  of  notea 
pugilists  and  sporting-men.  The  picture  of  a  certain 
judge,  who  had  made  himself  obnoxious  to  the  frater 
nity  of  criminals  by  his  severe  sentences,  was  turned 
upside  dow  i.  There  was  neither  table  nor  chair  in  the 
room. 

The  woman  in  black  had  passed  in  just  before  the  girls, 
and  was  waiting  her  turn  to  examine  the  drawn  numbers. 
She  had  not  tasted  food  since  the  day  before,  having  ven 
tured  h(  ,r  only  dime  on  a  policy,  and  was  feeling  strangely 
faint  and  bewildered.  She  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  It 
was  the  old  story.  Her  combination  had  not  come  out, 
and  she  was  starving.  As  she  moved  back  toward  the 
door  she  staggered  a  little.  Pinky,  who  had  become  cu 
rious  about  her,  noticed  this,  and  watched  her  as  she  went 
out. 

"  It's  about  up  with  the  old  lady,  I  guess,"  she  said  to 
her  companion,  with  an  unfeeling  laugh. 

And  she  was  right.  On  the  next  morning  the  poor 
old  woman  was  found  dead  in  her  room,  and  those  who 
prepared  her  for  burial  said  that  she  was  wasted  to  a 
skeletor  She  had,  in  fact,  starved  herself  in  her  infatua- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  151 

flon,  spending  day  after  day  in  policies  what  she  should 
have  spent  for  food.  Pinky's  strange  remark  was  but  too 
true.  She  had  become  a  policy-drunkard — a  vice  almost 
as  disastrous  in  its  effects  as  its  kindred  vice,  intemper 
ance,  though  less  brutalizing  and  less  openly  indulged. 

"  Where  ur>w  ?"  was  the  question  of  Pinky's  friend  aa 
they  came  down,  after  spending  in  policies  all  the  money 
they  had  received  from  the  sale  of  Flora  Bond's  clothing. 
"  Any  other  game  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"  Come  along  to  my  room,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

"  Round  in  Ewing  street?" 

"  Yes.    Great  game  up,  if  I  can  only  get  on  the  track." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  There's  a  cast-off  baby  in  Dirty  Alley,  and  Fan  Bray 
knows  its  mother,  and  she's  rich." 

"What?" 

"  Fan's  getting  lots  of  hush-money." 

"  Goody !  but  that  is  game !" 

"Isn't  it?  The  baby's  owned  by  two  beggai -women 
who  board  it  in  Dirty  Alley.  It's  'most  starved  and 
frozen  to  death,  and  Fan's  awful  'fraid  it  may  die.  She 
wants  me  to  steal  it  for  her,  so  that  she  may  have  it  bet 
ter  taken  care  of,  and  I  was  going  to  do  it  last  night, 
when  I  got  into  a  muss." 

"  Who's  the  woman  that  boards  it?" 

"  She  lives  in  a  cellar,  and  is  drunk  every  night.  Can 
steal  the  brat  easily  enough  ;  but  if  I  can't  find  out  who 
it  belongs  to,  you  see  it  will  be  trouble  for  nothing." 


152  CAST  ADRIFT. 

•'  No,  I  don't  see  any  such  thing,"  answered  Nell  Peter. 
"  If  you  can't  get  hush-money  out  of  its  mother,  you  cat 
bleed  Fanny  Bray." 

"  That's  so,  and  I'm  going  to  bleed  her.  The  mother, 
you  see,  thinks  the  baby's  dead.  The  proud  old  grand 
mother  gave  it  away,  as  soon  as  it  was  born,  to  a  woman 
that  Fan  Bray  found  for  her.  Its  mother  was  out  of  her 
head,  and  didn't  know  nothing.  That  woman  sold  the 
baby  to  the  women  who  keep  it  to  beg  with.  She's  gone 
up  the  spout  now,  and  nobody  knows  who  the  mother  and 
grandmother  are  but  Fan,  and  nobody  knows  where  the 
baby  is  but  me  and  Fan.  She's  bleeding  the  old  lady, 
and  promises  to  share  with  me  if  I  keep  track  of  the  baby 
and  see  that  it  isn't  killed  or  starved  to  death.  But  I 
don't  trust  her.  She  puts  me  off  with  fives  and  tens,  when 
I'm  sure  she  gets  hundreds.  Now,  if  we  have  the  baby 
all  to  ourselves,  and  find  out  the  mother  and  grand 
mother,  won't  we  have  a  splendid  chance  ?  I'll  bet  you 
on  that." 

"  Won't  we  ?    Why,  Pinky,  this  is  a  gold-mine !" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  was  great  game  up  ?  I  was 
just  wanting  some  one  to  help  me.  Met  you  in  the  nick 
of  time." 

The  two  girls  had  now  reached  Pinky's  room  in  Ewing 
street,  where  they  continued  in  conference  for  a  long  time 
before  settling  their  plans. 

"  Does  Fan  know  where  you  live  ?"  queried  NelJ 
Peter. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  will  have  to  change  your  quarters." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  153 

*  Easily  done.  Doesn't  take  half  a  dozen  furniture 
cars  to  move  me." 

"  I  know  a  room." 

"Where?" 

"  It's  a  little  too  much  out  of  the  way,  you'll  think, 
maybe,  but  it's  just  the  dandy  for  hiding  in.  You  can 
keep  the  brat  there,  and  nobody — " 

"  Me  keep  the  brat?"  interrupted  Pinky,  with  a  derisive 
laugh.  "  That's  a  good  one !  I  see  myself  turned  baby- 
tender  !  Ha !  ha !  that's  funny !" 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do  with  the  child  after  you 
steal  it  ?"  asked  Pinky's  friend. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  nurse  it  or  have  it  about  me." 

"What  then?" 

"  Board  it  with  some  one  who  doesn't  get  drunk  or  buy 
policies." 

"  You'll  hunt  for  a  long  time." 

"  Maybe,  but  I'll  try.  Anyhow,  it  can't  be  worse  ofl 
than  it  is  now.  What  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  it  will  be 
out  of  its  misery  before  we  can  get  hold  of  it.  The 
woman  who  is  paid  for  keeping  it  at  night  doesn't  give  it 
any  milk — just  feeds  it  on  bread  soaked  in  water,  and 
that  is  slow  starvation.  It's  the  way  them  that  dcn't 
want  to  keep  their  babies  get  rid  of  them  about  here." 

"The  game's  up  if  the  baby  dies,"  said  Nell  Peter, 
growing  excited  under  this  view  of  the  case.  "  If  it  onlv 
gets  bread  soaked  in  water,  it  can't  live.  I've  seen  that 
done  over  and  over  again.  They're  starving  a  baby  on 
bread  and  water  now  just  over  from  my  room,  and  it 
cries  and  frets  and  moans  all  the  time  it's  awake,  poo* 


154  CAST  ADRIFT. 

little  wretch !  I've  been  in  hopes  for  -a  week  that  they'd 
give  it  an  overdose  of  paregoric  or  something  else." 

"  We  must  fix  it  to-night  in  some  way,"  answered 
Pinky.  "  Where's  the  room  you  spoke  of?" 

"In  Grubb's  court.  You  know  Grubb's  court? — a 
kind  of  elbow  going  off  from  Rider's  court.  There's  a 
room  up  there  that  you  can  get  where  even  the  police 
would  hardly  find  you  out." 

"  Thieves  live  there,"  said  Pinky. 

'•'  No  matter.     They'll  not  trouble  you  or  the  baby." 

"  Is  the  room  furnished  ?" 

"  Yes.     There's  a  bed  and  a  table  and  two  chairs." 

After  farther  consultation  it  was  decided  that  Pinky 
should  move  at  once  from  her  present  lodgings  to  the 
room  in  Grubb's  court,  and  get,  if  possible,  possession  of 
the  baby  that  very  night.  The  moving  was  easily  ac 
complished  after  the  room  was  secured.  Two  small 
bundles  of  clothing  constituted  Pinky's  entire  effects; 
and  taking  these,  the  two  girls  went  quietly  out,  leaving 
a  week's  rent  unpaid. 

The  night  that  closed  this  early  winter  day  was  raw 
and  cold,  the  easterly  wind  still  prevailing,  with  occa 
sional  dashes  of  rain.  In  a  cellar  without  fire,  except  a 
few  bits  of  smouldering  wood  in  an  old  clay  furnace, 
that  gave  no  warmth  to  the  damp  atmosphere,  and  with 
scarcely  an  article  of  furniture,  a  woman  half  stupid 
from  drink  sat  on  a  heap  of  straw,  her  bed,  with  her 
hands  clasped  about  her  knees.  She  was  rocking  her 
body  backward  and  forward,  and  crooning  to  herself  ia 
\  maudlin  way.  A  lighted  tallow  candle  stood  on  the 


AMONG  THE  PIRATES. 


See  page  155. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  155 

Boor  of  the  cellar,  and  near  it  a  cup  oi  water,  in  which 
was  a  spoon  and  some  bread  soaking. 

•'  Mother  Hewitt !"  called  a  voice  from  the  cellar  door 
that  opened  on  the  street.  "  Here,  take  the  baby !" 

Mother  Hewitt,  as  she  was  called,  started  up  and  made 
her  way  with  an  unsteady  gait  to  the  front  part  of  the 
cellar,  where  a  woman  in  not  much  better  condition  than 
herself  stood  holding  out  a  bundle  of  rags  in  which  a 
fretting  baby  was  wrapped. 

"  Quick,  quick !"  called  the  woman.  "  And  see  here," 
she  continued  as  Mother  Hewitt  reached  her  arms  for  the 
baby ;  "  I  don't  believe  you're  doing  the  right  thing.  Did 
he  have  plenty  of  milk  last  night  and  this  morning  ?" 

"  Just  as  much  as  he  would  take." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  He's  been  frettin'  and  chawin'  at 
the  strings  of  his  hood  all  the  afternoon,  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  asleep,  and  he's  looking  punier  every  day. 
I  believe  you're  giving  him  only  bread  and  water." 

But  Mother  Hewitt  protested  that  she  gave  him  the 
best  of  new  milk,  and  as  much  as  he  would  take. 

"Well,  here's  a  quarter,"  said  the  woman,  handing 
Mother  Hewitt  some  money;  "  and  see  that  he  is  well  fed 
to-night  and  to-morrow  morning.  He's  getting  'most  too 
deathly  in  his  face.  The  people  won't  stand  it  if  they 
think  a  baby's  going  to  die — the  women  'specially,  and 
most  of  all  the  young  things  that  have  lost  babies.  One 
of  these — I  know  'em  by  the  way  they  look  out  of  their 
eyes — came  twice  to-day  and  stood  over  him,  sad  and  sor 
rowful  like ;  she  didn't  give  me  anything  I've  seen  her 
before.  Maybe  she's  his  mother.  As  like  as  not,  for  no- 


156  CAST  ADRIFT. 

body  knows  where  he  came  from.  Wasn't  Sally  Long'* 
baby ;  always  thought  she'd  stole  him  from  somebody. 
Now,  mind,  he's  to  have  good  milk  every  day,  or  I'll 
change  his  boarding-house.  D'ye  hear !" 

And  laughing  at  this  sally,  the  woman  turned  away  to 
Bpend  in  a  night's  debauch  the  money  she  had  gained  in 
half  a  day's  begging. 

Left  to  herself,  Mother  Hewitt  went  staggering  back 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and  seated  herself  on  the 
ground  beside  the  cup  of  bread  and  water,  which  was 
mixed  to  the  consistence  of  cream.  As  she  did  so  the 
light  of  her  poor  candle  fell  on  the  baby's  face.  It  was 
pinched  and  hungry  and  ashen  pale,  the  thin  lips  wrought 
by  want  and  suffering  into  such  sad  expressions  of  pain 
that  none  but  the  most  stupid  and  hardened  could  look  at 
them  and  keep  back  a  gush  of  tears. 

But  Mother  Hewitt  saw  nothing  of  this — felt  nothing  of 
this.  Pity  and  tenderness  had  long  since  died  out  of  hei 
heart.  As  she  laid  the  baby  back  on  one  arm  she  took 
a  spoonful  of  the  mixture  prepared  for  its  supper,  and 
pushed  it  roughly  into  its  mouth.  The  baby  swallowed  it 
with  a  kind  of  starving  eagerness,  but  with  no  sign  of  sat 
isfaction  on  its  sorrowful  little  face.  But  Mother  Hewitt 
was  too  impatient  to  get  through  with  her  work  of  feeding 
the  child,  and  thrust  in  spoonful  after  spoonful  until  it 
choked,  when  she  shook  it  angrily,  calling  it  vile  names. 

The  baby  cried  feebly  at  this,  when  she  shook  it  again 
and  slapped  it  with  her  heavy  hand.  Then  it  grew  still. 
She  put  the  spoon  again  to  its  lips,  but  it  shut  them  tightly 
and  turned  its  head  away. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  157 

'•  ^ery  well,"  said  Mother  Hewitt.  "If  you  won't, 
ym  won't;"  and  she  tossed  the  helpless  thing  as  she  would 
have  tossed  a  senseless  bundle  over  upon  the  heap  of 
straw  that  served  as  a  bed,  adding,  as  she  did  so, "  I  never 
coaxed  my  own  brats." 

The  baby  did  not  cry.  Mother  Hewitt  then  blew  out 
the  candle,  and  groping  her  way  to  the  door  of  the  cellar 
that  opened  on  the  street,  went  out,  shutting  down  the 
heavy  door  behind  her,  and  leaving  the  child  alone  in 
that  dark  and  noisome  den — alone  in  its  foul  and  wet 
garments;  but,  thanks  to  kindly  drugs,  only  partially 
conscious  of  its  misery. 

Mother  Hewitt's  first  visit  was  to  the  nearest  dram-shop. 
Here  she  spent  for  liquor  five  cents  of  the  money  she  had 
received.  From  the  dram-shop  she  went  to  Sam  McFad- 
don's  policy-office.  This  was  not  hidden  away,  like  most 
of  the  offices,  in  an  upper  room  or  a  back  building  or  in 
some  remote  cellar,  concealed  from  public  observation, 
but  stood  with  open  door  on  the  very  street,  its  customers 
going  in  and  out  as  freely  and  unquestioned  as  the  cus 
tomers  of  its  next-door  neighbor,  the  dram-shop.  Police 
men  passed  Sam's  door  a  hundred  times  in  every  twenty- 
four  hours,  saw  his  customers  going  in  and  out,  knew 
their  errand,  talked  with  Sam  about  his  business,  some  of 
them  trying  their  luck  occasionally  after  there  had  been 
an  exciting  "  hit,"  but  none  reporting  him  or  in  any  way 
interfering  with  his  unlicensed  plunder  of  the  miserable 
and  besotted  wretches  ^hat  crowded  his  neighborhood. 

From  the  whisky-shop  to  the  policy-shop  went  Mothei 
Hewitt.  Here  she  put  down  five  cents  more;  she  never 

14 


158  CAST  ADRIF1 

tat  higher  than  this  on  a  "row."  f.  i  A  Ce  policy-shot 
she  went  back  to  the  whisky-shop,  and  took  another 
drink.  By  this  time  she  was  beginning  to  grow  noisy. 
It  so  happened  that  the  woman  who  had  left  the  baby 
with  her  a  little  while  before  came  in  just  then,  and 
being  herself  much  the  worse  for  drink,  picked  a  quarrel 
with  Mother  Hewitt,  accusing  her  of  getting  drunk  ou 
the  money  she  received  for  keeping  the  baby,  and  starv 
ing  it  to  death.  A  fight  was  the  consequence,  in  which 
they  were  permitted  to  tear  and  scratch  and  bruise  each 
other  in  a  shocking  way,  to  the  great  enjoyment  of  the 
little  crowd  of  debased  and  brutal  men  and  women  who 
filled  the  dram-shop.  But  fearing  a  visit  from  the  police, 
the  owner  of  the  den,  a  strong,  coarse  Irishman,  interfered, 
and  dragging  the  women  apart,  pushed  Mother  Hewitt 
out,  giving  her  so  violent  an  impetus  that  she  fell  forward 
into  the  middle  of  the  narrow  street,  where  she  lay  unable 
to  rise,  not  from  any  hurt,  but  from  sheer  intoxication. 

"What's  up  now?"  cried  one  and  another  as  this  little 
ripple  of  disturbance  broke  upon  that  vile  and  troubled 
sea  of  humanity. 

"  Only  Mother  Hewitt  drunk  again !"  lightly  spoke  a 
young  girl  not  out  of  her  teens,  but  with  a  countenance 
that  seemed  marred  by  centuries  of  debasing  evil.  Her 
laugh  would  have  made  an  angel  shiver. 
*  A  policeman  came  along,  and  stood  for  a  little  while 
looking  at  the  prostrate  woman. 

"It's  Mother  Hewitt,"  said  one  of  the  bystanders. 

"  Here,  Dick,"  and  the  policeman  spoke  to  a  man  neai 
rum.  "Take  hold  of  her  feet." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  159 

The  mao  did  as  told,  and  the  policeman  lifting  the 
woman's  head  and  shoulders,  they  carried  her  a  short 
distance,  to  where  a  gate  opened  into  a  large  yard  used 
for  putting  in  carts  and  wagons  at  night,  and  deposited 
her  on  the  ground  just  inside. 

"  She  can  sleep  it  off  there,"  said  the  policeman  as  h  • 
dropped  his  unseemly  load.  "She'll  have  a-plenty  to 
keep  her  company  before  morning." 

And  so  they  left  her  without  covering  or  shelter  in 
the  wet  and  chilly  air  of  a  late  November  night,  drunk 
and  asleep. 

As  the  little  crowd  gathered  by  this  ripple  of  excite 
ment  melted  away,  a  single  figure  remained  lurking  in 
a  corner  of  the  yard  and  out  of  sight  in  its  dark  shadow. 
It  was  that  of  a  man.  The  moment  he  was  alone  with 
the  unconscious  woman  he  glided  toward  her  with  the 
alert  movements  of  an  animal,  and  with  a  quickness  that 
made  his  work  seem  instant,  rifled  her  pockets.  His 
gains  were  ten  cents  and  the  policy-slip  she  had  just 
received  at  Sam  McFaddon's.  He  next  examined  her 
shoes,  but  they  were  of  no  value,  lifted  her  dirty  dress 
and  felt  its  texture  for  a  moment,  then  dropped  it  with  a 
motion  of  disgust  and  a  growl  of  disappointment. 

As  he  came  out  from  the  yard  with  his  poor  booty, 
the  light  from  a  street-lamp  fell  on  as  miserable  a  look 
ing  wretch  as  ever  hid  himself  from  the  eyes  of  day — 
dirty,  ragged,  bloated,  forlorn,  with  scarcely  a  trace  of 
manhood  in  his  swollen  and  disfigured  face.  His  steps, 
quick  from  excitement  a  few  moments  before,  were  now 
shambling  and  made  with  difficulty.  He  had  not  far  to 


160  CAST  ADRIFT. 

walk  for  what  he  was  seeking.  The  ministers  to  his  appe 
tite  were  all  about  him,  a  dozen  in  every  block  of  that 
terrible  district  that  seemed  as  if  forsaken  by  God  and 
man.  Into  the  first  that  came  in  his  way  he  went  with 
nervous  haste,  for  he  had  not  tasted  of  the  fiery  stimu 
lant  he  was  craving  with  a  fierce  and  unrelenting  thirst 
for  many  hours.  He  did  not  leave  the  bar  until  he  had 
drank  as  much  of  the  burning  poison  its  keeper  dis 
pensed  as  his  booty  would  purchase.  In  less  than  half 
an  hour  he  was  thrown  dead  drunk  into  the  street  and 
then  carried  by  policemen  to  the  old  wagon-yard,  to  take 
his  night's  unconscious  rest  on  the  ground  in  company 
with  Mother  Hewitt  and  a  score  besides  of  drunken 
wretches  who  were  pitilessly  turned  out  from  the  various 
dram-shops  after  their  money  was  spent,  and  who  were 
not  considered  by  the  police  worth  the  trouble  of  taking 
to  the  station-house. 

When  Mother  Hewitt  crept  back  into  her  cellar  at 
daylight,  the  baby  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FOR  more  than  a  week  after  Edith's  call  on  Dr.  Had 
cliffe  she  seemed  to  take  but  little  interest  in  any 
thing,  and  remained  alone  in  her  room  for  a  greater  part 
of  the  time,  except  when  her  father  was  in  the  house. 
Since  her  questions  about  her  baby  a  slight  reserve 
had  risen  up  between  them.  During  this  time  she 
went  out  at  least  once  every  day,  and  when  questioned 
by  her  mother  as  to  where  she  had  been,  evaded  any 
direct  answer.  If  questioned  more  closely,  she  would 
show  a  rising  spirit  and  a  decision  of  manner  that  had 
the  effect  to  silence  and  at  the  same  time  to  trouble  Mrs. 
Dinneford,  whose  mind  was  continually  on  the  rack. 

One  day  the  mother  and  daughter  met  in  a  part  of 
the  city  where  neither  of  them  dreamed  of  seeing  the 
other.  It  was  not  far  from  where  Mrs.  Bray  lived.  Mrs. 
Dinneford  had  been  there  on  a  purgational  visit,  and  had 
come  away  lighter  in  purse  and  with  a  heavier  burden 
of  fear  and  anxiety  on  her  heart. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  I've  been  to  St.  John's  mission  sewing-school,"  replied 
Edith.  "  I  have  a  class  there." 

"You  have!     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  befoie?    ) 
don't  like  such  doings.     This  is  no  place  for  you." 
14  *  L  161 


A  62  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"My  place  is  where  I  can  do  good,"  returned  Edit!, 
ipeaking  slowly,  but  with  great  firmness. 

"  Good !  You  can  do  good  if  you  want  to  without  de 
meaning  yourself  to  work  like  this.  I  don't  want  you 
mixed  up  with  these  low,  vile  people,  and  I  won't  have 
it !"  Mrs.  Dinneford  spoke  in  a  sharp,  positive  voice. 

Edith  made  no  answer,  and  they  walked  on  together. 

"  I  shall  speak  to  your  father  about  this,"  said  Mrs. 
Dinneford.  "It  isn't  reputable.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
seen  here  for  the  world." 

"I  shall  walk  unhurt;  you  need  not  fear,"  returned 
Edith. 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  some  time,  Edith 
not  caring  to  speak,  and  her  mother  in  doubt  as  to  what 
it  were  best  to  say. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  going  to  St.  John's  mission 
school  ?"  at  length  queried  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"  I've  been  only  a  few  times,"  replied  Edith. 

"  And  have  a  class  of  diseased  and  filthy  little  wretches, 
I  suppose — gutter  children  ?" 

"  They  are  God's  children,"  said  Edith,  in  a  tone  of  re 
buke. 

"  Oh,  don't  preach  to  me !"  was  angrily  replied. 

"  I  only  said  what  was  true,"  remarked  Edith. 

There  was  silence  again. 

"  Are  you  going  directly  home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinneford, 
after  they  had  walked  the  distance  of  several  blocks. 
Kdith  replied  that  she  was. 

:t  Then  you'd  better  take  that  car.  I  shall  not  bt,  home 
fix  an  hour  yet." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  163 

.They  separated,  Edith  taking  the  car.  As  soon  as  she 
was  alone  Mrs.  Dinneford  quickened  her  steps,  like  a 
person  who  had  been  held  back  from  some  engagement. 
A  walk  of  ten  minutes  brought  her  to  one  of  the  princi 
pal  hotels  of  the  city.  Passing  in,  she  went  up  to  a  re 
ception-parlor,  where  she  was  met  by  a  man  who  rose 
from  a  seat  near  the  window  and  advanced  to  the  middlo 
of  the  room.  He  was  of  low  stature,  with  quick,  rather 
nervous  movements,  had  dark,  restless  eyes,  and  wore  a 
heavy  black  moustache  that  was  liberally  sprinkled  with 
gray.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was  shaved  clean.  Ho 
showed  some  embarrassment  as  he  came  forward  to  meet 
Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"  Mr.  Freeling,"  she  said,  coldly. 

The  man  bowed  with  a  mixture  of  obsequiousness  and 
familiarity,  and  tried  to  look  steadily  into  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford's  face,  but  was  not  able  to  do  so.  There  was  a 
steadiness  and  power  in  her  eyes  that  his  could  not  bear. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me,  sir  ?"  she  demanded,  a. 
little  sharply. 

"  Take  a  chair,  and  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  Freeling, 
and  he  turned,  moving  toward  a  corner  of  the  room,  she 
following.  They  sat  down,  taking  chairs  near  each  other. 

"  There's  trouble  brewing,"  said  the  man,  his  face  grow 
ing  dark  and  anxious. 

"What  kind  of  trouble?" 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  George  Granger  yesterday." 

«  What !"     The  color  went  out  of  the  lady's  face. 

"A  letter  from  George  Granger.      He  wished  to  uee 


164  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Did  you  go r 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  lie  want  ?" 

Freeling  took  a  deep  breath,  and  sighed.  His  maniiei 
leas  troubled. 

"What  did  he  want?"  Mrs.  Dinneford  repeated  the 
question. 

"  He's  as  sane  as  you  or  I,"  said  Freeling. 

"  Is  he  ?  Oh,  very  well !  Then  let  him  go  to  the  State's 
prison."  Mrs.  Dinneford  said  this  with  some  bravado  in 
her  manner.  But  the  color  did  not  come  back  to  her 
face. 

"  He  has  no  idea  of  that,"  was  replied. 

"What  then?"  The  lady  leaned  toward  Freeling. 
Her  hands  moved  nervously. 

"  He  means  to  have  the  case  in  court  again,  but  on  a 
new  issue." 

"He  does'" 

•'Yes;  says  that  he's  innocent,  and  that  you  and  I 
know  it — that  he's  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy,  and  that 
we  are  the  conspirators !" 

"  Talk ! — amounts  to  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Dinne 
lord,  with  a  faint  little  laugh. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  It's  ugly  talk,  and  espe- 
jially  so,  seeing  that  it's  true." 

"  No  one  will  give  credence  to  the  ravings  of  an  insane 
criminal." 

"  People  are  quick  to  credit  an  evil  report.  They  will 
pity  and  believe  him,  now  that  the  worst  is  reached.  A 
reaction  in  public  feeling  has  already  taken  place.  HQ 


CAST  ADRIFT.-  165 

has  one  or  two  friends  left  who  do  Lot  hesitate  to  affirm 
that  there  has  been  foul  play.  One  of  these  has  been 
tampering  with  a  clerk  of  mine,  and  I  came  upon  them 
with  their  heads  together  on  the  street  a  few  days  ago, 
and  had  my  suspicions  aroused  by  their  startled  look 
when  they  saw  me." 

"  *  What  did  that  man  want  with  you  ?'  I  inquired, 
when  the  clerk  came  in. 

"He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  'He  was 
asking  me  something  about  Mr.  Granger/ 

" « What  about  him  ?'  I  queried.  '  He  asked  me  if  I 
knew  anything  in  regard  to  the  forgery/  he  returned, 

"I  pressed  him  with  questions,  and  found  that  sus 
picion  was  on  the  right  track.  This  friend  of  Granger's 
asked  particularly  about  your  visits  to  the  store,  and 
whether  he  had  ever  noticed  anything  peculiar  in  our  in 
tercourse — anything  that  showed  a  familiarity  beyond 
what  would  naturally  arise  between  a  customer  and 
salesman." 

"  There's  nothing  in  that,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford.  "  If 
you  and  I  keep  our  own  counsel,  we  are  safe.  The  testi 
mony  of  a  condemned  criminal  goes  for  nothing.  People 
may  surmise  and  talk  as  much  as  they  please,  but  no  one 
knows  anything  about  these  notes  but  you  and  I  and 
George." 

"  A  pardon  from  the  governor  may  put  a  new  aspeci 
on  the  case." 

"  A  pardon  !"  There  was  a  tremor  of  alarm  in  JVtrs 
Dinneford's  voice. 

"  Yes ;  that,  no  doubt,  will  be  the  first  move." 


166  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"The  first  move!  Why,  Mr.  Freeling,  you  don'i 
think  anything  like  this  is  in  contemplation  ?" 

•'  I'm  afraid  so.  George,  as  I  have  said,  is  no  more 
crazy  than  y  u  or  I.  But  he  cannot  come  out  of  the 
asylum,  as  the  case  now  stands,  without  going  to  tho 
penitentiary.  So  the  first  move  of  his  friends  will  be  tc 
get  a  pardon.  Then  he  is  our  equal  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law.  It  would  be  an  ugly  thing  for  you  and  me  to  be 
sued  for  a  conspiracy  to  ruin  this  young  man,  and  have 
the  charge  of  forgery  added  to  the  count." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  gave  a  low  cry,  and  shivered. 

"  But  it  may  come  to  that." 

"  Impossible !" 

"  The  prudent  man  foreseeth  the  evil  and  hideth  him- 
self,  but  the  simple  pass  on  and  are  punished,"  said  Free- 
ling.  "  It  is  for  this  that  I  have  sent  for  you.  It's  an 
ugly  business,  and  I  was  a  weak  fool  ever  to  have  en 
gaged  in  it." 

"  You  were  a  free  agent." 

"  I  was  a  weak  fool." 

"  As  you  please,"  returned  Mrs.  Dinneford,  coldly,  and 
drawing  herself  away  from  him. 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  them  spoke 
again.  Then  Freeling  said, 

"  I  was  awake  all  night,  thinking  over  this  matter,  and 
it  looks  uglier  the  more  I  think  of  it.  It  isn't  likely  thai 
enough  evidence  could  be  found  to  convict  either  of  us, 
but  to  be  tried  on  such  an  accusatk  n  would  be  horrible." 

"  Horrible !  horrible !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dinneford. 
«  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  She  gave  signs  of  weakness  and 


VAST  ADRIFT.  16"f 

terror.  Freeling  observed  her  closely,  then  felt  hib  way 
onward. 

"  We  are  in  great  peril,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  know 
ing  what  turn  affairs  will  take.  I  only  wish  I  were  a 
thousand  miles  from  here.  It  would  be  safer  for  us  both." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  If  I  were  foot-free.  I 
would  be  off  to-morrow." 

He  watched  Mrs.  Dinneford  closely,  and  saw  a  change 
creep  over  her  face. 

"  If  I  were  to  disappear  suddenly,"  he  resumed,  "  sus 
picion,  if  it  took  a  definite  shape,  would  fall  on  me.  You 
would  not  be  thought  of  in  the  matter." 

He  paused  again,  observing  his  companion  keenly  but 
stealthily.  He  was  not  able  to  look  her  fully  in  the  face. 

"  Speak  out  plainly,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with  visible 
impatience. 

"  Plainly,  then,  madam,"  returned  Freeling,  changing 
his  whole  bearing  toward  her,  and  speaking  as  one  who 
felt  that  he  was  master  of  the  situation,  "  it  has  come  to 
this:  I  shall  have  to  break  up  and  leave  the  city,  or 
there  will  be  a  new  trial  in  which  you  and  I  will  be  the 
accused.  Now,  self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 
I  don't  mean  to  go  to  the  State's  prison  if  I  can  help 
it.  What  I  am  now  debating  are  the  chances  in  my 
favor  if  Granger  gets  a  pardon,  and  then  makes  an  effort 
to  drive  us  to  the  wall,  which  he  most  surely  will.  1 
have  settled  it  so  far — " 

Mrs.  Dinneford  leaned  toward  him  with  an  anxious  ex 
pression  on  her  countenance,  waiting  for  the  next  sen 
tence.  But  Freeling  did  not  go  on. 


168  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  How  have  you  settled  it  ?"  she  demanded,  trembling 
as  she  spoke  with  the  excitement  of  suspense. 

"  That  I  am  not  going  to  the  wall  if  I  can  help  it." 

"How  will  you  help  it?" 

"  I  have  an  accomplice ;"  and  this  time  he  was  able  to 
look  at  Mrs.  Dinneford  with  such  a  fixed  and  threatening 
gaze  that  her  eyes  fell. 

"  You  have  ?"  she  questioned,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"Yes." 

"Who?" 

"  Mrs.  Helen  Dinneford.  And  do  you  think  for  a  mo 
ment  that  to  save  myself  I  would  hesitate  to  sacrifice 
her?" 

The  lady's  face  grew  white.  She  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  not. 

"  I  am  talking  plainly,  as  you  desired,  madam,"  con 
tinued  Freeling.  "  You  led  me  into  this  thing.  It  waa 
no  scheme  of  mine ;  and  if  more  evil  consequences  are  to 
come,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  save  my  own  head.  Let 
the  hurt  go  to  where  it  rightfully  belongs." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Mrs.  Dinneford  tried  to  rally 
herself. 

"Just  this,"  was  answered:  "if  I  am  dragged  into 
court,  I  mean  to  go  in  as  a  witness,  and  not  as  a  criminal. 
At  the  first  movement  toward  an  indictment,  I  shall  see 
the  district  attorney,  whom  I  know  very  well,  and  give 
him  such  information  in  the  case  as  will  lead  to  fixing 
the  crime  on  you  alone,  while  I  will  come  in  as  the  prin 
cipal  witness.  This  will  make  your  conviction  certain." 

"  Devil !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dinneford,  her  white  face  con- 


CAST  ADEIFT.  16£ 

vulsed  and  her  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets  with  rage 
and  fear.  "  Devil !"  she  repeated,  not  able  to  control  hei 
passion. 

«'  Then  you  know  me,"  was  answered,  with  cool  self- 
possession,  "  and  what  you  have  to  expect." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  considerable  time.  Up  to  this 
period  they  had  been  alone  in  the  parlor.  Guests  of  the 
house  now  came  in  and  took  seats  neai  them.  They 
arose  and  walked  the  floor  for  a  little  while,  still  in  si 
lence,  then  passed  into  an  adjoining  parlor  that  happened 
to  be  empty,  and  resumed  the  conference. 

"  This  is  a  last  resort,"  remarked  Freeling,  softening 
his  voice  as  they  sat  down — "  a  card  that  I  do  not  wish 
to  play,  and  shall  not  if  I  can  help  it.  But  it  is  best  that 
you  should  know  that  it  is  in  my  hand.  If  there  is  any 
better  way  of  escape,  I  shall  take  it." 

"  You  spoke  of  going  away,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"  Yes.     But  that  involves  a  great  deal." 

"What?" 

"  The  breaking  up  of  my  business,  and  loss  of  money 
and  opportunities  that  I  can  hardly  hope  ever  to  regain." 

"  Why  loss  of  money  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  wind  up  hurriedly,  and  it  will  be  im 
possible  to  collect  more  than  a  small  part  of  my  outstand  • 
ing  claims.  I  shall  have  to  go  away  under  a  cloud,  and 
it  will  not  be  prudent  to  return.  Most  of  these  claims 
will  therefore  become  losses.  The  amount  of  capital  I 
shall  be  able  to  take  will  not  be  sufficient  to  do  more  than 
provide  for  a  small  beginning  in  some  distant  place  and 
under  an  assumed  name.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  remair 

15 


170  CAST  ADRIFT. 

and  fight  the  thing  through,  as  I  have  no  doubt  I  can,  J 
shall  keep  my  business  and  my  place  in  society  here — 
hurt,  it  may  be,  in  my  good  name,  but  still  with  the  main 
chance  all  right.  But  it  will  be  hard  for  you.  If  I  pass 
the  ordeal  safely,  you  will  not.  And  the  question  to  con 
sider  is  whether  you  can  make  it  to  my  interest  to  gr 
away,  to  drop  out  of  sight,  injured  in  fortune  and  good 
name,  while  you  go  unscathed.  You  now  have  it  all  in 
a  nutshell.  I  will  not  press  you  to  a  decision  to-day. 
Your  mind  is  too  much  disturbed.  To-morrow,  at  noon, 
I  would  like  to  see  you  again." 

Freeling  made  a  motion  to  rise,  but  Mrs.  DinneforA 
did  not  stir. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  you  decide  at  once  to  let  things 
take  their  course.  Understand  me,  I  am  ready  for  either 
alternative.  The  election  is  with  yourself." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  was  too  much  stunned  by  all  this  to  be 
able  to  come  to  any  conclusion.  She  seemed  in  the 
maze  of  a  terrible  dream,  full  of  appalling  reality.  T& 
wait  for  twenty-four  hours  in  this  state  of  uncertainty 
was  more  than  her  thoughts  could  endure.  And  yet  she 
must  have  time  to  think,  and  to  get  command  of  her 
mental  resources. 

"  Will  you  be  disengaged  at  five  o'clock  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  I  will  be  here  at  five." 

"  Very  well." 

Mrs.  Diimeford  arose  with  a  weary  air. 

"  I  shall  want  to  hear  from  you  very  explicitly,"  she 
wid.  "  If  your  demand  is  anywhere  in  the  range  of  rea- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  171 

son  and  possibility,  I  may  meet  it.  If  outside  of  that 
range,  I  shall  of  course  reject  it.  It  is  possible  that  you 
may  not  hold  all  the  winning  cards — in  fact,  I  know  that 
you  do  not." 

"  I  will  be  here  at  five,"  said  Freeling. 

"  Very  well.     I  shall  be  on  time." 

And  they  turned  from  each  other,  passing  from  th« 
parlor  by  separate  doors. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ONE  morning,  about  two  weeks  later,  Mr.  Freeling  did 
not  make  his  appearance  at  his  place  of  business  as 
usual.  At  ten  o'clock  a  clerk  went  to  the  hotel  where  he 
boarded  to  learn  the  cause  of  his  absence.  He  had  not 
been  there  since  the  night  before.  His  trunks  and  cloth 
ing  were  all  in  their  places,  and  nothing  in  the  room  in 
dicated  anything  more  than  an  ordinary  absence. 

Twelve  o'clock,  and  still  Mr.  Freeling  had  not  come  to 
the  store.  Two  or  three  notes  were  to  be  paid  that  day, 
and  the  managing-clerk  began  to  feel  uneasy.  The  bank 
and  check  books  were  in  a  private  drawer  in  the  fire 
proof  of  which  Mr.  Freeling  had  the  key.  So  there  was 
no  means  of  ascertaining  the  balances  in  bank. 

At  one  o'clock  it  was  thought  best  to  break  open  the 
private  drawer  and  see  how  matters  stood.  Freeling  kept 
three  bank-accounts,  and  it  was  found  that  on  the  day 
before  he  had  so  nearly  checked  out  all  the  balances  that 
the  aggregate  on  deposit  was  not  over  twenty  dollars.  In 
looking  back  over  these  bank-accounts,  it  was  seen  that 
\vithin  a  week  he  had  made  deposits  of  over  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars,  and  that  most  of  the  checks  drawn  against 
these  deposits  were  in  sums  of  five  thousand  dollars 
each. 

At  three  o'clock  he  was  still  absent.  His  notes  weni 
172 


CAST  ADRIFT.  173 

to  protest,  and  on  the  next  day  his  city  creditors  took 
possession  of  his  effects.  One  fact  soon  became  apparent 
— he  had  been  playing  the  rogue's  game  on  a  pretty  liberal 
Bcale,  having  borrowed  on  his  checks,  from  business  friends 
and  brokers,  not  less  than  sixty  or  seventy  thousand  dollars. 
It  was  estimated,  on  a  thorough  examination  of  his  busi 
ness,  that  he  had  gone  off  with  at  least  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  To  this  amount  Mrs.  Dinneford  had  contributed 
from  her  private  fortune  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  dol 
lars.  Not  until  she  had  furnished  him  with  that  large 
amount  would  he  consent  to  leave  the  city.  He  magnified 
her  danger,  and  so  overcame  her  with  terrors  that  she 
yielded  to  his  exorbitant  demand. 

On  the  day  a  public  newspaper  announcement  of  Free- 
ling's  rascality  was  made,  Mrs.  Dinneford  went  to  bed 
sick  of  a  nervous  fever,  and  was  for  a  short  period  out  of 
her  mind. 

Neither  Mr.  Dinneford  nor  Edith  had  failed  to  notice 
a  change  in  Mrs.  Dinneford.  She  was  not  able  to  hide 
her  troubled  feelings.  Edith  was  watching  her  far  more 
closely  than  she  imagined ;  and  now  that  she  was  tempo- 
rarily  out  of  her  mind,  she  did  not  let  a  word  or  look  es 
cape  her.  The  first  aspect  of  her  temporary  aberration 
was  that  of  fear  and  deprecation.  She  was  pursued  by 
gome  one  who  filled  her  with  terror,  and  she  would  lift 
her  hands  to  keep  him  off,  or  hide  her  head  in  abject 
alarm.  Then  she  would  beg  him  to  keep  away.  Once 
she  said, 

"It's  no  use;  I  can't  do  anything  more.  You're  a 
vampire !" 

\5* 


1 74  CAST  ADRIF1, 

"  Who  is  a  vampire  ?"  asked  Edith,  hoping  that  he. 
mother  would  repeat  some  name. 

But  the  question  seemed  to  put  her  on  her  guard.  The 
expression  of  fear  went  out  of  her  face,  and  she  looked  at 
her  daughter  curiously. 

Edith  did  not  repeat  the  question.  In  a  little  while  the 
mother's  wandering  thoughts  began  to  find  words  again, 
and  she  went  on  talking  in  broken  sentences  out  of  which 
little  could  be  gleaned.  At  length  she  said,  turning  to 
Edith  and  speaking  with  the  directness  of  one  in  her 
right  mind, 

"  I  told  you  her  name  was  Gray,  didn't  I  ?  Gray,  not 
Bray." 

It  was  only  by  a  quick  and  strong  effort  that  Edith 
could  steady  her  voice  as  she  replied: 

"  Yes ;  you  said  it  was  Gray." 

"  Gray,  not  Bray.     You  thought  it  was  Bray." 

"  But  it's  Gray,"  said  Edith,  falling  in  with  her  mother's 
humor.  Then  she  added,  still  trying  to  keep  her  voice 
even, 

"  She  was  my  nurse  when  baby  was  born." 

"  Yes ;  she  was  the  nurse,  but  she  didn't — " 

Checking  herself,  Mrs.  Dinneford  rose  on  one  arm  and 
looked  at  Edith  in  a  frightened  way,  then  said,  hur 
riedly, 

"  Oh,  it's  dead,  it's  dead !  You  know  that ;  and  the 
woman's  dead,  too." 

Edith  sat  motionless  and  silent  as  a  statue,  waiting  fyr 
what  more  might  come.  But  her  mother  shut  her  lip§ 
tightly,  and  turned  her  head  away. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  175 

A  long  time  elapsed  before  she  was  able  to  read  in  her 
mother's  confused  utterances  anything  to  which  she  could 
attach  a  meaning.  At  last  Mrs.  Dinneford  spoke  ou+ 
again,  and  with  an  abruptness  that  startled  her : 

"  Not  another  dollar,  sir !  Remember,  you  don't  hold 
&ll  the  winning  cards !" 

Edith  held  her  breath,  and  sat  motionless.  Her  mother 
muttered  and  mumbled  incoherently  for  a  while,  and  then 
said,  sharply, 

"  I  said  I  would  ruin  him,  and  I've  done  it !" 

"  Ruin  who  ?"  asked  Edith,  in  a  repressed  voice. 

This  question,  instead  of  eliciting  an  answer,  as  Edith 
had  hoped,  brought  her  mother  back  to  semi-conscious 
ness.  She  rose  again  in  bed,  and  looked  at  her  daughter 
in  the  same  frightened  way  she  had  done  a  little  while 
before,  then  laid  herself  over  on  the  pillows  again.  Her 
lips  were  tightly  shut. 

Edith  was  almost  wild  with  suspense.  The  clue  to  that 
sad  and  painful  mystery  which  was  absorbing  her  life 
seemed  almost  in  her  grasp.  A  word  from  those  closely- 
shut  lips,  and  she  would  have  certainty  for  uncertainty 
But  she  waited  and  waited  until  she  grew  faint,  and  still 
the  lips  kept  silent. 

But  after  a  while  Mrs.  Dinneford  grew  uneasy,  and  be 
gan  talking.  She  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side,  threw 
her  arms  about  restlessly  and  appeared  greatly  disturbed. 

"  Not  dead,  Mrs.  Bray  ?"  she  cried  out,  at  last,  in  a  clean 
strong  voice. 

Edith  became  fixed  as  a  statue  once  more. 

A  few  moments,  and  Mrs.  Dinneford  added, 


176  CAST  ADRIFT. 

•'  No,  no !  I  won't  have  her  coming  after  me.  More 
money !  You're  a  vampire !" 

Then  she  muttered  and  writhed  and  distorted  her  face 
like  one  in  some  desperate  struggle.  Edith  shuddered  as 
phe  stood  over  her. 

After  this  wild  paroxysm  Mrs.  Dinneford  grew  more  quiet, 
and  seemed  to  sleep.  Edith  remained  sitting  by  the  bed- 
Bide,  her  thoughts  intent  on  the  strange  sentences  that  had 
fallen  from  her  mother's  lips.  What  mystery  lay  behind 
them  ?  Of  what  secret  were  they  an  obscure  revelation  ? 
"  Not  dead !"  Who  not  dead  ?  And  again,  "  It's  dead ! 
You  know  that ;  and  the  woman's  dead,  too."  Then  it 
was  plain  that  she  had  heard  aright  the  name  of  the  per 
son  who  had  called  on  her  mother,  and  about  whom  her 
mother  had  made  a  mystery.  It  was  Bray ;  if  not,  why 
the  anxiety  to  make  her  believe  it  Gray  ?  And  this  woman 
had  been  her  nurse.  It  was  plain,  also,  that  money  was 
being  paid  for  keeping  a  secret.  What  secret  ?  Then  a 
life  had  been  ruined.  "  I  said  I  would  ruin  him,  and  I've 
done  it !"  Who  ?  who  could  her  mother  mean  but  the 
unhappy  man  she  had  once  called  husband,  now  a  crim 
inal  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  and  only  saved  by  insanity 
from  a  criminal's  cell  ? 

Putting  all  together,  Edith's  mind  quickly  wrought  out 
a  theory,  and  this  soon  settled  into  a  conviction — a  con 
viction  so  close  to  fact  that  all  the  chief  elements  were 
true. 

During  her  mother's  temporary  aberration,  Edith  never 
left  her  room  except  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  Not  a 
word  or  sentence  escaped  her  notice.  But  she  waited  and 


CAST  ADRIFT.  177 

listened  in  vain  for  anything  more.  The  talking  parox 
ysm  was  over.  A  stupor  of  mind  and  body  followed. 
Out  of  this  a  slow  recovery  came,  but  it  did  not  progress 
to  a  full  convalescence.  Mrs.  Dinneford  went  forth  from 
her  sick-chamber  weak  and  nervous,  starting  at  sudden 
noises,  and  betraying  a  perpetual  uneasiness  and  suspense. 
Edith  was  continually  on  the  alert,  watching  every  look 
and  word  and  act  with  untiring  scrutiny.  Mrs,.  Dinne 
ford  soon  became  aware  of  this.  Guilt  made  her  wary, 
and  danger  inspired  prudence.  Edith's  whole  manner  had 
changed.  Why  ?  was  her  natural  query.  Had  she  been 
wandering  in  her  mind  ?  Had  she  given  any  clue  to  the 
dark  secrets  she  was  hiding  ?  Keen  observation  became 
mutual.  Mother  and  daughter  watched  each  other  with 
a  suspicion  that  never  slept. 

It  was  over  a  month  from  the  time  Freeling  disap 
peared  before  Mrs.  Dinneford  was  strong  enough  to  go 
out,  except  in  her  carriage.  In  every  case  where  she  had 
ridden  out,  Edith  had  gone  with  her. 

"  If  you  don't  care  about  riding,  it's  no  matter,"  the 
mother  would  say,  when  she  saw  Edith  getting  ready. 
"  I  can  go  alone.  I  feel  quite  well  and  strong." 

But  Edith  always  had  some  reason  for  going  against 
which  her  mother  could  urge  no  objection.  So  she  kept 
nf3r  as  closely  under  observation  as  possible.  One  day,  on 
returning  from  a  ride,  as  the  carriage  passed  into  the 
block  where  they  lived,  she  saw  a  woman  standing  on 
the  step  in  front  of  their  residence.  She  had  pu'.led  the 
nell,  and  was  waiting  for  a  servant  to  answer  it. 

"  There  is  some  one  at  our  door,"  said  Edith, 
M 


178  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  leaned  across  her  daughter,  and  the& 
drew  back  quickly,  saying, 

•'  It's  Mrs.  Barker.  Tell  Henry  to  drive  past.  I  don't 
want  to  see  visitors,  and  particularly  not  Mrs.  Barker." 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  and  with  ill-concealed  agitation. 
Edith  kept  her  eyes  on  the  woman,  and  saw  her  go  in, 
hut  did  not  tell  the  driver  to  keep  on  past  the  house.  It 
was  not  Mrs.  Barker.  She  knew  that  very  well.  In  the 
next  moment  their  carriage  drew  up  at  the  door. 

"  Go  on,  Henry !"  cried  Mrs.  Dinneford,  leaning  past 
her  daughter,  and  speaking  through  the  window  that  was 
open  on  that  side.  "  Drive  down  to  Loring's." 

"  Not  till  I  get  out,  Henry,"  said  Edith,  pushing  open 
the  door  and  stepping  to  the  pavement.  Then  with  a 
quick  movement  she  shut  the  door  and  ran  across  the 
pavement,  calling  back  to  the  driver  as  she  did  so, 

"  Take  mother  to  Loring's." 

"Stop,  Henry!"  cried  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  with  an 
alertness  that  was  surprising  sprung  from  the  carriage, 
and  was  on  the  steps  of  their  house  before  Edith's  violent 
ring  had  brought  a  servant  to  the  door.  They  passed  in, 
Edith  holding  her  place  just  in  advance. 

"  I  will  see  Mrs.  Barker,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  trying 
to  keep  out  of  her  voice  the  fear  and  agitation  from  which 
she  was  suffering.  "  You  can  go  up  to  your  room." 

"It  isn't  Mrs.  Barker.  You  are  mistaken."  There 
was  as  much  of  betrayal  in  the  voice  of  Edith  as  in  that 
of  her  mother.  Each  was  trying  to  hide  herself  from 
the  other,  but  the  veil  in  both  cases  was  far  too  thin  fo7 
ieception. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  179 

Mother  aiid  daughter  entered  the  parlor  together.  As 
iliey  did  so  a  woman  of  small  stature,  and  wearing  a 
rusty  black  dress,  arose  from  a  seat  near  the  window.  The 
moment  she  saw  Edith  she  drew  a  heavy  dark  veil  over 
her  face  with  a  quickness  of  movement  that  had  in  it  as 
much  of  discomfiture  as  surprise. 

Mrs.  Dinneford  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  The  im 
minent  peril  in  which  she  stood  calmed  the  wild  tumult 
within,  as  the  strong  wind  calms  the  turbulent  ocean,  and 
gave  her  thoughts  clearness  and  her  mind  decision.  Edith 
saw  before  the  veil  fell  a  startled  face,  and  recognized  in 
the  sallow  countenance  and  black,  evil  eyes,  the  woman 
who  had  once  before  called  to  sec  her  mother. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  come  here,  Mrs.  Gra}  ?"  cried 
out  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with  an  anger  that  was  more  real 
than  feigned,  advancing  quickly  upon  the  woman  as  she 
spoke.  "  Go !"  and  she  pointed  to  the  door,  "  and  don't 
you  dare  to  come  here  again.  I  told  you  when  you  were 
here  last  time  that  I  wouldn't  be  bothered  with  you  any 
longer.  I've  done  all  I  ever  intend  doing.  So  take 
yourself  away." 

And  she  pointed  again  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Bray — foi  it 
was  that  personage — comprehended  the  situation  fully. 
She  was  as  good  an  actor  as  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  quite 
as  equal  to  the  occasion.  Lifting  her  hand  in  a  weak, 
deprecating  way,  and  then  shrinking  like  one  borne  down 
by  the  shock  of  a  great  disappointment,  she  moved  back 
from  the  excited  woman  and  made  her  way  to  the  hall, 
Mrs.  Dinneford  following  and  assailing  her  i»  passionate 
language. 


180  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Edith  was  thrown  completely  off  her  guard  by  thi« 
unexpected  scene.  She  did  not  stir  from  the  spot  where 
she  stood  on  entering  the  parlor  until  the  visitor  was  at 
the  street  door,  whither  her  mother  had  followed  the 
retreating  figure.  She  did  not  hear  the  woman  say  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  spoke  more  in  command  than  en 
treaty, 

"  To-morrow  at  one  o'clock,  or  take  the  consequences." 

"  It  will  be  impossible  to-morrow,"  Mrs.  Dinneford 
whispered  back,  hurriedly ;  "  I  have  been  very  ill,  and 
have  only  just  begun  to  ride  out.  It  may  be  a  week, 
but  I'll  surely  come.  I'm  watched.  Go  now  !  go !  go !" 

And  she  pushed  Mrs.  Bray  out  into  the  vestibule  and 
shut  the  door  after  her.  Mrs.  Dinneford  did  not  return 
to  the  parlor,  but  went  hastily  up  to  her  own  room,  lock 
ing  herself  in. 

She  did  not  come  out  until  dinner-time,  when  she  made 
an  effort  to  seem  composed,  but  Edith  saw  her  hand  trem 
ble  every  time  it  was  lifted.  She  drank  three  glasses  of 
wine  during  the  meal.  After  dinner  she  went  to  her  own 
apartment  immediately,  and  did  not  come  down  again 
that  day. 

On  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Dinneford  tried  to  appear 
cheerful  and  indifferent.  But  her  almost  colorless  face, 
pinched  about  the  lips  and  nostrils,  and  the  troubled 
expression  that  would  not  go  out  of  her  eyes,  betrayed 
to  Edith  the  intense  anxiety  and  dread  that  lay  beneath 
the  surface. 

Days  went  by,  but  Edith  had  no  more  signs.  Now 
that  her  mother  was  stead 'ly  getting  back  both  bodily 


CAST  ADRIFT.  18. 

strength  and  mental  self-poise,  the  veil  behind  which  sh« 
was  hiding  herself,  and  which  had  been  broken  into  rifta 
here  and  there  during  her  sickness,  grew  thicker  and 
thicker.  Mrs.  Dinneford  had  too  much  at  stake  not  tc 
play  her  cards  with  exceeding  care.  She  knew  that 
Edith  was  watching  her  with  an  intentness  that  let  noth 
ing  escape.  Her  first  care,  as  soon  as  she  grew  strong 
enough  to  have  the  mastery  over  herself,  was  so  to  con 
trol  voice,  manner  and  expression  of  countenance  as  not 
to  appear  aware  of  this  surveillance.  Her  next  was  to 
re-establish  the  old  distance  between  herself  and  daugh 
ter,  which  her  illness  had  temporarily  bridged  over,  and 
her  next  was  to  provide  against  any  more  visits  from 
Mrs.  Bray. 

16 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AS  for  Edith,  all  doubts  and  questionings  as  to  her 
baby's  fate  were  merged  into  a  settled  conviction 
that  it  was  alive,  and  that  her  mother  knew  where  it  was 
to  be  found.  From  her  mother's  pity  and  humanity  she 
had  nothing  to  hope  for  the  child.  It  had  been  cruelly 
cast  adrift,  pushed  out  to  die ;  by  what  means  was  cared 
not,  so  that  it  died  and  left  no  trace. 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Bray  had,  in  the  single  glance  Edith 
obtained  of  it,  become  photographed  in  her  mind.  If 
she  had  been  an  artist,  she  could  have  drawn  U  from 
memory  so  accurately  that  no  one  who  knew  the  woman 
could  have  failed  to  recognize  her  likeness.  Always 
when  in  the  street  her  eyes  searched  for  this  face ;  she 
never  passed  a  woman  of  small  stature  and  poor  dark 
clothing  without  turning  to  look  at  her.  Every  day  she 
went  out,  walking  the  streets  sometimes  for  hours  looking 
for  this  face,  but  not  finding  it.  Every  day  she  passed 
certain  corners  and  localities  where  she  had  seen  women 
begging,  and  whenever  she  found  one  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms  would  stop  to  look  at  the  poor  starved  thing,  and 
question  her  about  it. 

Gradually  all  her  thoughts  became  absorbed  in  the 
condition  of  poor,  neglected  and  suffering  children. 
Her  attendance  at  the  St.  John's  mission  sewmg-schooL 
182 


CAST  ADEIFT.  185 

wlaich  was  located  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  of  the 
worst  places  in  the  city,  brought  her  in  contact  with  lit- 
ile  children  in  such  a  wretched  state  of  ignorance,  desti 
tution  and  vice  that  her  heart  was  moved  to  deepest  pity, 
intensified  by  the  thought  that  ever  and  anon  flashed 
across  her  mind :  "  And  my  baby  may  become  like  one 
of  these!" 

Sometimes  this  thought  would  drive  her  almost  to  mad 
ness.  Often  she  would  become  so  wild  in  her  suspense  as 
to  be  on  the  verge  of  openly  accusing  her  mother  with 
having  knowledge  of  her  baby's  existence  and  demand 
ing  of  her  its  restoration.  But  she  was  held  back  by  the 
fear  that  such  an  accusation  would  only  shut  the  door 
of  hope  for  ever.  She  had  come  to  believe  her  mother 
capable  of  almost  any  wickedness.  Pressed  to  the  wall 
Bhe  would  never  be  if  there  was  any  way  of  escape,  and  to 
prevent  such  a  thing  there  was  nothing  so  desperate  that 
she  would  not  do  it ;  and  so  Edith  hesitated  and  feared 
to  take  the  doubtful  issue. 

Week  after  week  and  month  after  month  now  went  on 
without  a  single  occurrence  that  gave  to  Edith  any  new 
light.  Mrs.  Dinneford  wrought  with  her  accomplice  so 
effectually  that  she  kept  her  wholly  out  of  the  way. 
Often,  in  going  and  returning  from  the  mission-school, 
Edith  would  linger  about  the  neighborhood  where  she 
had  once  met  her  mother,  hoping  to  see  her  come  out  of 
lome  one  of  the  houses  there,  for  she  had  got  it  into  her 
•nind  that  the  woman  called  Mrs.  Gray  lived  somewhere 
a  this  locality. 

One  day,  in  questioning  a  child  who  had  come  to  the 


184  CAST  ADRIFT. 

• 

sewing-school  as  to  her  home  and  how  she  lived,  the  lit. 
tie  girl  said  something  about  a  baby  that  her  mother  said 
ghe  knew  must  have  been  stolen. 

"How  old  is  the  baby?"  asked  Edith,  hardly  able  to 
keep  the  tremor  out  of  her  voice. 

"It's  a  little  thing,"  answered  the  child.  "I  don't 
know  how  old  it  is ;  maybe  it's  six  months  old,  or  maybe 
it's  a  year.  It  can  sit  upon  the  floor." 

"  Why  does  your  mother  think  it  has  been  stolen  ?" 

"  Because  two  bad  girls  have  got  it,  and  they  pay  a 
woman  to  take  care  of  it.  It  doesn't  belong  to  them, 
she  knows.  Mother  says  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  it 
died." 

"  Why  does  she  say  that  ?" 

"Oh,  she  always  talks  that  way  about  babies — saya 
she's  glad  when  they  die." 

"  Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?" 

"  It's  a  boy  baby,"  answered  the  child. 

"  Does  the  woman  take  good  care  of  it?" 

"Oh  dear,  no!  She  lets  it  sit  on  the  floor  'most  all 
the  time,  and  it  cries  so  that  I  often  go  up  and  nurse  it 
The  woman  lives  in  the  room  over  ours." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"  In  Grubb's  court." 

"Will  you  show  me  the  way  there  after  school  is  over?" 

The  child  looked  up  into  Edith's  face  with  an  expres 
sion  of  surprise  and  doubt.  Edith  repeated  her  question. 

"  1  guess  you'd  better  not  go,"  was  answered,  in  a  voice 
that  meant  all  the  words  expressed. 

"Why  not?" 


CAST  ADRIFT.  186 

"It  isn't  a  good  place." 

"  But  you  live  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  nobody's  going  to  trouble  me." 

"Nor  me,"  said  Edith. 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  place  it  is, 
oor  what  dreadful  people  live  there." 

"I  could  get  a  policeman  to  go  with  me,  couldn't  I?" 

"  Yes,  maybe  you  could,  or  Mr.  Paulding,  the  mission 
ary.  He  goes  about  everywhere." 

"  Where  can  I  find  Mr.  Paulding?" 

"  At  the  mission  in  Briar  street." 

"  You'll  show  me  the  way  there  after  school?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  it  isn't  a  nice  place  for  you  to  go,  but  I  guess 
nobody'll  trouble  you." 

After  the  school  closed,  Edith,  guided  by  the  child, 
made  her  way  to  the  Briar  st.  mission-house.  As  she  entered 
the  narrow  street  in  which  it  was  situated,  the  aspect  of 
things  was  so  strange  and  shocking  to  her  eyes  that  she 
felt  a  chill  creep  to  her  heart.  She  had  never  imagined 
anything  so  forlorn  and  squalid,  so  wretched  and  com 
fortless.  Miserable  little  hovels,  many  of  them  no  bet 
ter  than  pig-styes,  and  hardly  cleaner  within,  were 
crowded  together  in  all  stages  of  dilapidation.  Windows 
with  scarcely  a  pane  of  glass,  the  chilly  air  kept  out  by 
old  hats,  bits  of  carpet  or  wads  of  newspaper,  could  bc< 
Been  on  all  sides,  with  here  and  there,  showing  some 
remains  of  an  orderly  habit,  a  broken  pane  closed  with 
a  smooth  piece  of  paper  pasted  to  the  sash.  Instinct- 
'vely  she  paused,  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  fear. 

"  It's  only  halfway  down,"  said  the  child.     "  We'U  go 


186  CAST  ADRIFT. 

quick.  I  guess  nobody'll  speak  to  you.  They're  afraiu 
of  Mr.  Paulding  about  here.  He's  down  on  'em  if  they 
meddle  with  anybody  that's  coming  to  the  mission." 

Edith,  thus  urged,  moved  on.  She  had  gone  but  a  feM 
eteps  when  two  men  came  in  sight,  advancing  toward  her. 
They  were  of  the  class  to  be  seen  at  all  times  in  that 
region — debased  to  the  lowest  degree,  drunken,  ragged, 
bloated,  evil-eyed,  capable  of  any  wicked  thing.  They 
were  singing  when  they  came  in  sight,  but  checked  their 
drunken  mirth  as  soon  as  they  saw  Edith,  whose  heart 
Bunk  again.  She  stopped,  trembling. 

"  They're  only  drunk,"  said  the  child.  "  I  don't  believe 
they'll  hurt  you." 

Edith  rallied  herself  and  walked  on,  the  men  coming 
closer  and  closer.  She  saw  them  look  at  each  other  with 
leering  eyes,  and  then  at  her  in  a  way  that  made  her 
shiver.  When  only  a  few  paces  distant,  they  paused,  and 
with  the  evident  intention  of  barring  her  farther  progress. 

"  Good-afternoon,  miss,"  said  one  of  them,  with  a  low 
bow.  "  Can  we  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

The  pale,  frightened  face  of  Edith  was  noticed  by  the 
other,  and  it  touched  some  remnant  of  manhood  not  yet 
wholly  extinguished. 

"Let  her  alone,  you  miserable  cuss!"  he  cried,  and 
giving  his  drunken  companion  a  shove,  sent  him  stagger 
ing  across  the  street.  This  made  the  way  clear,  and  Edith 
sprang  forward,  but  she  had  gone  only  a  few  feet  when 
she  came  face  to  face  with  another  obstruction  even  more 
frightful,  if  possible,  than  the  first.  A  woman  with  a 
red,  swollen  visage  black  eye,  soiled,  tattered,  drunk,  with 


CAST  ADRIFT  187 

arms  wildly  extended,  came  rushing  up  to  her.  The  child 
gave  a  scream.  The  wretched  creature  caught  at  a  shawl 
worn  by  Edith,  and  was  dragging  it  from  her  shoulders, 
when  the  door  of  one  of  the  houses  flew  open,  and  a 
woman  came  out  hastily.  Grasping  the  assailant,  she 
huiled  her  across  the  street  with  the  strength  of  a  giant. 

"  We're  going  to  the  mission,"  said  the  child. 

"  It's  just  down  there.  Go  'long.  I'll  stand  here  and 
Bee  that  no  one  meddles  with  you  again." 

Edith  faltered  her  thanks,  and  went  on. 

"  That's  the  queen,"  said  her  companion. 

"  The  queen !"  Edith's  hasty  tones  betrayed  her  sur 
prise. 

"  Yes ;  it's  Norah.  They're  all  afraid  of  her.  I'm 
glad  she  saw  us.  She's  as  strong  as  a  man." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  the  mission,  but  in 
those  few  minutes  Edith  saw  more  to  sadden  the  heart, 
more  to  make  it  ache  for  humanity,  than  could  be  de 
scribed  in  pages. 

The  missionary  was  at  home.  Edith  told  him  the  pur 
pose  of  her  call  and  the  locality  she  desired  to  visit. 

"  I  wanted  to  go  alone,"  she  remarked,  "  but  this  little 
girl,  who  is  in  my  class  at  the  sewing-school,  said  it 
wouldn't  be  safe,  and  that  you  would  go  with  me." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  go  alone  into  Grubb's 
court,"  said  the  missionary,  kindly,  and  with  concern  in 
his  voice.  "  for  a  worse  place  can  hardly  be  found  in  the 
city — I  was  going  to  say  in  the  world.  You  will  be  safe 
with  me,  however.  But  why  do  you  wish  to  visit  Grubb's 
pourt !  Perhaps  I  can  do  all  that  is  needed," 


188  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  This  little  girl,  who  lives  in  there,  has  been  telling  m€ 
about  a  poor  neglected  baby  that  her  mother  says  has  no 
doubt  been  stolen,  and — and — "  Edith's  voice  faltered, 
but  she  quickly  gained  steadiness  under  a  strong  effort  of 
will :  "  I  thought  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  do  something 
for  it — to  get  it  into  one  of  the  homes,  maybe.  It  is 
dreadful,  sir,  to  think  of  little  babies  being  neglected." 

Mr.  Paulding  questioned  the  child  who  had  brought 
Edith  to  the  mission-house,  and  learned  from  her  that  the 
baby  was  merely  boarded  by  the  woman  who  had  it  in 
charge,  and  that  she  sometimes  took  it  out  and  sat  on  the 
street,  begging.  The  child  repeated  what  she  had  said 
to  Edith — that  the  baby  was  the  property,  so  to  speak,  of 
two  abandoned  women,  who  paid  its  board. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  missionary,  after  some  reflection, 
"  that  if  getting  the  child  out  of  their  hands  is  your  pur 
pose,  you  had  better  not  go  there  at  present.  Your  visit 
would  arouse  suspicion ;  and  if  the  two  women  have  any 
thing  to  gain  by  keeping  the  child  in  their  possession,  it 
will  be  at  once  taken  to  a  new  place.  I  am  moving  about 
in  these  localities  all  the  while,  and  can  look  in  upon  the 
baby  without  anything  being  thought  of  it." 

This  seemed  so  reasonable  that  Edith,  who  could  not 
get  over  the  nervous  tremors  occasioned  by  what  she 
had  already  seen  and  encountered,  readily  consented  to 
leave  the  matter  for  the  present  in  Mr.  Paulding's  hands. 

"  If  you  will  come  here  to-morrow,"  said  the  mission 
ary,  "  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can  about  the  baby." 

Out  of  a  region  where  disease,  want  and  crime  shrunk 
from  common  observation,  and  sin  and  death  held  high 


CAST  ADRIFT.  189 

carnival,  Edith  hurried  with  trembling  feet,  and  heart 
beating  so  heavily  that  she  could  hear  it  throb,  the  con 
siderate  missionary  going  with  her  until  she  had  crossed 
the  boundary  of  this  morally  infected  district. 

Mr.  Dinneford  met  Edith  at  the  door  on  her  arrival 
home. 

"  My  child,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  looked  into  her  face, 
back  to  which  the  color  had  not  returned  since  her  fright 
in  Briar  street,  "  are  you  sick  ?" 

"  I  don't  feel  very  well ;"  and  she  tried  to  pass  him 
nastily  in  the  hall  as  they  entered  the  house  together. 
But  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm  and  held  her  back 
gently,  then  drew  her  into  the  parlor.  She  sat  down, 
trembling,  weak  and  faint.  Mr.  Dinneford  waited  for 
some  moments,  looking  at  her  with  a  tender  concern,  be 
fore  speaking. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  my  dear  ?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

After  a  little  hesitation,  Edith  told  her  father  about 
her  visit  to  Briar  street  and  the  shock  she  had  received. 

"You  were  wrong,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "  It  is  most 
fortunate  for  you  that  you  took  the  child's  advice  and 
called  at  the  mission.  If  you  had  gone  to  Grubb's  court 
alone,  you  might  not  have  come  out  alive." 

"  Oh  no,  father !     It  can't  be  so  bad  as  that." 

"  It  is  just  as  bad  as  that,"  he  replied,  with  a  trou 
bled  face  and  manner.  "Grubb's  court  is  one  of  the 
traps  into  which  unwary  victims  are  drawn  that  they 
may  be  plundered.  It  is  as  much  out  of  common  obser 
vation  almost  as  the  lair  of  a  wild  beast  in  some  deep 
wilderness.  I  have  heard  it  described  by  those  who  ha  TO 


190  CAST  ADRIFT. 

been  th(  re  under  protection  of  the  police,  and  shudder  tc 
think  of  the  narrow  escape  you  have  made.  I  don't  want 
you  to  go  into  that  vile  district  again.  Tt  is  no  place  for 
such  as  you." 

"  There's  a  poor  little  baby  there/'  said  Edith,  her  voice 
trembling  and  tears  filling  her  eyes.  Then,  after  a  brief 
struggle  with  her  feelings,  she  threw  herself  upon  her 
father,  sobbing  out,  "And  oh,  father,  it  may  be  my 
baby !" 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  not  able  to  keep 
his  voice  firm — "  my  poor,  poor  child !  It  is  all  a  wild 
dream,  the  suggestion  of  evil  spirits  who  delight  in  tor 
ment." 

"What  became  of  my  baby,  father?  Can  you  te]l 
me?" 

"  It  died,  Edith  dear.  We  know  that,"  returned  her 
father,  trying  to  speak  very  confidently.  But  the  doubt 
i  a  his  own  mind  betrayed  itself. 

"  Do  you  know  it  ?"  she  asked,  rising  and  confronting 
her  father. 

"  I  didn't  actually  see  it  die.     But — but — " 

"  You  know  no  more  about  it  than  I  do,"  said  Edith  ; 
"if  you  did,  you  might  set  my  heart  at  rest  with  a  word. 
But  you  cannot.  And  so  I  am  left  to  my  wild  fears,  that 
grow  stronger  every  day.  Oh,  father,  help  me  if  you 
can.  I  must  have  certainty,  or  I  shall  lose  my  reason." 

"  If  you  don't  give  up  this  wild  fancy,  you  surely  will." 
inswered  Mr.  Dinneford,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

"If  I  were  to  shut  myself  up  and  do  nothing,"  said 
Edith,  with  greater  calmness,  "I  would  be  in  a  mad- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  ft 

house  before  a  week  went  by.  My  safety  lies  in  getting 
down  to  the  truth  of  this  wild  fancy,  as  you  call  it  It 
has  taken  such  possession  of  me  that  nothing  but  cer 
tainty  can  give  me  rest.  Will  yon  help  me?" 

"  How  can  I  help  you  ?  I  have  no  clue  to  this  sad 
mystery." 

"  Mystery !  Then  you  are  as  much  in  the  dark  as  I 
am — know  no  more  of  what  became  of  my  baby  than  I 
do  !  Oh,  father,  how  could  you  let  such  a  thing  be  done, 
and  ask  no  questions — such  a  cruel  and  terrible  thing — 
and  I  lying  helpless  and  dumb?  Oh,  father,  my  inno 
cent  baby  cast  out  like  a  dog  to  perish — nay,  worse,  like 
a  lamb  among  wolves  to  be  torn  by  their  cruel  teeth — 
and  no  one  to  put  forth  a  hand  to  save !  If  I  only  knew 
that  he  was  dead !  If  I  could  find  his  little  grave  and 
comfort  my  heart  over  it !" 

Weak,  naturally  good  men,  like  Mr.  Dinneford,  often 
permit  great  wrongs  to  be  done  in  shrinking  from  con 
flict  and  evading  the  sterner  duties  of  life.  They  are 
often  the  faithless  guardians  of  immortal  trusts. 

There  was  a  tone  of  accusation  and  rebuke  in  Edith's 
voice  that  smote  painfully  on  her  father's  heart.  3  'e 
answered  feebly : 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  How  should  I  know  that  awf  - 
thing  wrong  was  being  done?  You  were  very  ill,  and 
the  baby  was  sent  away  to  be  nursed,  and  then  I  waa 
told  that  it  was  dead." 

"  Oh,  father !  Sent  away  without  your  seeing  it !  My 
!vaby  l  Your  little  grandson !  Oh,  father !" 

«*  But  you  know,  dear,  in  what  a  temper  of  mind  you* 


192  CAST  ADRIFT. 

mother  was — how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  do  anything 
with  her  when  she  once  sets  herself  to  do  a  thing." 

"Even  if  it  be  murder!"  said  Edith,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Hush,  hush,  my  child!  You  must  not  speak  so," 
returned  the  agitated  father. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  A  wall  of  separation  be 
gan  to  grow  up.  Edith  arose,  and  was  moving  from  the 
room. 

"  My  daughter !"   There  was  a  sob  in  the  father's  voice. 

Edith  stopped. 

"  My  daughter,  we  must  not  part  yet.  Come  back ;  sit 
down  with  me,  and  let  us  talk  more  calmly.  What  is 
past  cannot  be  changed.  It  is  with  the  now  of  this  un 
happy  business  that  we  have  to  do." 

Edith  came  back  and  sat  down  again,  her  father  taking 
a  seat  beside  her. 

"  That  is  just  it,"  she  answered,  with  a  steadiness  of 
tone  and  manner  that  showed  how  great  was  the  self-con 
trol  she  was  able  to  exert.  "  It  is  with  the  now  of  thia 
unhappy  affair  that  we  have  to  do.  If  I  spoke  strongly 
of  the  past,  it  was  that  a  higher  and  intenser  life  might 
be  given  to  present  duty." 

"  Let  there  be  no  distance  between  us.  Let  no  wall  of 
separation  grow  up,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  tenderly.  "  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  this.  Confide  in  me,  consuJt  with 
me.  I  will  help  you  in  all  possible  ways  to  solve  this 
mystery.  But  do  not  again  venture  alone  into  that  dread 
ful  place.  I  will  go  with  you  if  you  think  any  good  will 
come  of  it." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  193 

"  I  laust  see  Mr.  Paulding  in  the  morning,"  s^id  Edith, 
with  calm  decision. 

"  Then  I  will  go  with  you,"  returned  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  Thank  you,  father ;"  and  she  kissed  him.  "  Until  then 
nothing  more  can  be  done."  She  kissed  him  again,  and 
then  went  to  her  own  room.  After  locking  the  door  she 
sank  on  her  knees,  leaning  forward,  with  her  face  burial 
in  the  cushions  of  a  chair,  and  did  not  rise  for  a  long 
time. 

17 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

OS  the  next  morning,  after  some  persuasion,  Editli 
consented  to  postpone  her  visit  toGrubb's  court  until 
after  her  father  had  seen  Mr.  Paulding,  the  missionary. 

"  Let  me  go  first  and  gain  what  information  I  can,"  hr 
urged.  "  It  may  save  you  a  fruitless  errand." 

It  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  almost  unconquerable 
repugnance  that  Mr.  Dinneford  took  his  way  to  the  mis 
sion-house,  in  Briar  street.  His  tastes,  his  habits  and  his 
naturally  kind  and  sensitive  feelings  all  made  him  shrink 
from  personal  contact  with  suffering  and  degradation. 
He  gave  much  time  and  care  to  the  good  work  of  help 
ing  the  poor  and  the  wretched,  but  did  his  work  in  boards 
and  on  committees,  rather  than  in  the  presence  of  the 
needy  and  suffering.  He  was  not  one  of  those  who  would 
pass  over  to  the  other  side  and  leave  a  wounded  traveler 
to  perish,  but  he  would  avoid  the  road  to  Jericho,  if  he 
thought  it  likely  any  such  painful  incident  would  meet 
him  in  the  way  and  shock  his  fine  sensibilities.  He 
wa.j  willing  to  work  for  the  downcast,  the  wronged,  the 
Buffering  and  the  vile,  but  preferred  doing  so  at  a  dis 
tance,  and  not  in  immediate  contact.  Thus  it  happened 
that,  although  one  of  the  managers  of  the  Briar  street 
mission  and  familiar  with  its  work  in  a  general  way,  he 
had  never  bjen  at  the  mission-house — had  never,  in  fact 
194 


CAST  A  DRIFT.  1 9  5  4 

set  his  foot  within  the  morally  plague-stricken  district  in 
which  it  stood.  He  had  often  been  urged  to  go,  but  could 
not  overcome  his  reluctance  to  meet  humanity  face  to  face 
in  its  sadder  and  more  degraded  aspects. 

Now  a  necessity  was  upon  him,  and  he  had  to  go.  It 
was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when,  at  almost  a 
single  step,  he  passed  from  what  seemed  paradise  to  pur 
gatory,  the  sudden  contrast  was  so  great.  There  were 
but  few  persons  in  the  little  street  where  the  mission  waa 
situated  at  that  early  hour,  and  most  of  these  were  chil 
dren — poor,  half-clothed,  dirty,  wan-faced,  keen-eyed  and 
alert  bits  of  humanity,  older  by  far  than  their  natural 
years,  few  of  them  possessing  any  higher  sense  of  right 
and  wrong  than  young  savages.  The  night's  late  orgies 
or  crimes  had  left  most  of  their  elders  in  a  heavy  morn 
ing  sleep,  from  which  they  did  not  usually  awaken  before 
midday.  Here  and  there  one  and  another  came  creeping 
out,  impelled  by  a  thirst  no  water  could  quench.  Now  it 
was  a  bloated,  wild-eyed  man,  dirty  and  forlorn  beyond 
description,  shambling  into  sight,  but  disappearing  in  a 
moment  or  two  in  one  of  the  dram-shops,  whose  name  was 
legion,  and  now  it  was  a  woman  with  the  angel  all  gone 
out  of  her  face,  barefooted,  blotched,  coarse,  red-eyed, 
bruised  and  awfully  disfigured  by  her  vicious,  drunken 
life.  Her  steps  too  made  haste  to  the  dram-shop. 

Such  houses  for  men  and  women  to  live  in  as  now 
stretched  before  his  eyes  in  long  dreary  rows  Mr.  Dinne- 
ford  had  never  seen,  except  in  isolated  cases  of  vice  and 
pqualor.  To  say  that  he  was  shocked  would  but  faintly 
express  his  feelings.  Hurrying  along,  he  soon  came  in 


196  CAST  ADRIFT. 

sight  of  the  mission.  At  this  moment  a  jar  broke  tlu 
quiet  of  the  scene.  Just  beyond  the  mission-house  two 
women  suddenly  made  their  appearance,  one  of  them 
pushing  the  other  out  upon  the  street.  Their  angry  cries 
rent  the  air,  filling  it  with  profane  and  obscene  oaths. 
They  struggled  together  for  a  little  while,  and  then  one 
of  them,  a  woman  with  gray  hair  and  not  less  than  sixty 
years  of  age,  fell  across  the  curb  with  her  head  on  the 
cobble-stoiies. 

As  if  a  sorcerer  had  stamped  his  foot,  a  hundred 
wretched  creatures,  mostly  women  and  children,  seemed 
to  spring  up  from  the  ground.  It  was  like  a  phantasy. 
They  gathered  about  the  prostrate  woman,  laughing  and 
jeering.  A  policeman  who  was  standing  at  the  corner 
a  little  way  off  came  up  leisurely,  and  pushing  the  mot 
ley  crew  aside,  looked  down  at  the  prostrate  woman. 

"  Oh,  it's  you  again !"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  annoyance, 
taking  hold  of  one  arm  and  raising  her  so  that  she  sat 
on  the  curb-stone.  Mr.  Dinneford  now  saw  her  face 
distinctly ;  it  was  that  of  an  old  woman,  but  red,  swollen 
and  teiribly  marred.  Her  thin  gray  hair  had  fallen 
over  her  shoulders,  and  gave  her  a  wild  and  crazy  look. 

"  Come,"  said  the  policeman,  drawing  on  the  woman's 
arm  and  trying  to  raise  her  from  the  ground.  But  she 
would  not  move. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  more  imperatively. 

"  What're  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  she  demanded. 

"I'm  going  to  lock  you  up.  So  come  along.  Have 
had  enough  of  you  about  here.  Always  drunk  and  in  a 
row  with  somebody." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  197 

Her  resista  nr.e  was  making  the  policeman  angry. 

"It'll  take  two  like  you  to  do  that,"  returned  the 
woman,  in  a  spiteful  voice,  swearing  foully  at  the  same 
time. 

'At  this  a  cheer  arose  from  the  crowd.     A  negro  with 
a  push-cart  came  along  at  the  moment. 

"  Here !  I  want  you,"  called  the  policeman. 

The  negro  pretended  not  to  hear,  and  the  policeman 
had  to  threaten  him  before  he  would  stop. 

Seeing  the  cart,  the  drunken  woman  threw  herself  back 
upon  the  pavement  and  set  every  muscle  to  a  rigid  strain. 
And  now  came  one  of  those  shocking  scenes — too  familiar, 
alas !  in  portions  of  our  large  Christian  cities — at  which 
everything  pure  and  merciful  and  holy  in  our  A&CUYQ 
revolts :  a  gray-haired  old  woman,  so  debased  by  drink 
and  an  evil  life  that  all  sense  of  shame  and  degradation 
had  been  extinguished,  fighting  with  a  policeman,  and 
for  a  time  showing  superior  strength,  swearing  vilely,  her 
face  distorted  with  passion,  and  a  crowd  made  up  chiefly 
of  women  as  vile  and  degraded  as  herself,  and  of  all  ages 
and  colors,  laughing,  shouting  and  enjoying  the  scene 
intensely. 

At  last,  by  aid  of  the  negro,  the  woman  was  lifted  into 
the  cart  and  thrown  down  upon  the  floor,  her  head  strik 
ing  one  of  the  sides  with  a  sickening  thud.  She  still 
swore  and  struggled,  and  had  to  be  held  down  by  the 
policeman,  who  stood  over  her,  while  the  cart  was  pushed 
off  to  the  nearest  station-house,  the  excited  crowd  fol 
lowing  with  shouts  and  merry  huzzas. 

Mr.  Dinneford  \ras  standing  in  a  maze,  shocked  and 
17*  N 


198  CAST  ADRIFT. 

distressed  by  this  little  episode,  when  a  .nan  at  his  sidfl 
said  in  a  grave,  quiet  voice, 

"I  doubt  if  you  could  see  a  sight  just  like  that  any 
where  else  in  all  Christendom."  Then  added,  as  ha 
extended  his  hand, 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here,  Mr.  Dinneford." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Paulding !"  and  Mr.  Dinneford  put  out  hia 
hand  and  grasped  that  of  the  missionary  with  a  nervous 
grip.  "  This  is  awful !  I  am  sixty  years  old,  but  any 
thing  so  shocking  my  eyes  have  not  before  looked  upon." 

"  We  see  things  worse  than  this  every  day,"  said  the 
missionary.  "  It  is  only  one  of  the  angry  boils  on  the 
surface,  and  tells  of  the  corrupt  and  vicious  blood  within. 
But  I  am  right  glad  to  find  you  here,  Mr.  Dinneford. 
Unless  you  see  these  things  with  your  own  eyes,  it  is 
impossible  for  you  to  comprehend  the  condition  of  affairs 
in  this  by-way  to  hell." 

"Hell  itself,  better  say,"  returned  Mr.  Dinneford. 
« It  is  hell  pushing  itself  into  visible  manifestation — hell 
establishing  itself  on  the  earth,  and  organizing  its  forces 
for  the  destruction  of  human  souls,  while  the  churches 
are  too  busy  enlarging  their  phylacteries  and  making 
broader  and  more  attractive  the  hems  of  their  garments 
to  take  note  of  this  fatal  vantage-ground  acquired  by 
the  enemy." 

Mr.  Dinneford  stood  and  looked  around  him  -in  a  dazed 
sort  of  way. 

"Is  Grubb's  court  near  this?"  he  asked,  recollecting 
"he  errand  upon  which  he  had  come. 

"Yes." 


OAST  ADRIFT.         t 

"A  young  lady  called  to  see  you  yesterday  afternoon 
io  ask  about  a  child  in  that  court  ?" 

«  Oh  yes !     You  know  the  lady  ?" 

.  "  She  is  my  daughter.  One  of  the  poor  children  in  he* 
sewing-class  told  her  of  a  neglected  baby  in  GrubVs  court, 
and  so  drew  upon  her  sympathies  that  she  started  to  go 
there,  but  was  warned  by  the  child  that  it  would  be  dan- 
gerous  for  a  young  lady  like  her  to  be  seen  in  that  den  of 
thieves  and  harlots,  and  so  she  came  to  you.  And  now  I 
am  here  in  her  stead  to  get  your  report  about  the  baby. 
I  would  not  consent  to  her  visiting  this  place  again." 

Mr.  Paulding  took  his  visitor  into  the  mission-house, 
near  which  they  were  standing.  After  they  \rere  seated, 
he  said, 

"I  have  seen  the  baby  about  which  your  daughter 
wished  me  to  make  inquiry.  The  woman  who  has  the 
care  of  it  is  a  vile  creature,  well  known  in  this  region — 
drunken  and  vicious.  She  said  at  first  that  it  was  her 
own  baby,  but  afterward  admitted  that  she  didn't  know 
who  its  mother  was,  and  that  she  was  paid  for  taking  care 
of  it.  I  found  out,  after  a  good  deal  of  talking  round, 
and  an  interview  with  the  mother  of  the  child  who  is  in 
your  daughter's  sewing-class,  that  a  girl  of  notoriously 
bad  character,  named  Pinky  Swett,  pays  the  baby'a 
board.  There's  a  mystery  about  the  child,  and  I  am  of 
the  opinion  that  it  has  been  stolen,  or  is  known  to  be  the 
offcast  of  some  respectable  family.  The  woman  who  has 
the  care  of  it  was  suspicious,  and  seemed  annoyed  at  in) 
questions." 

"  Is  it  a  boy  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 


200  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Yes,  and  nas  a  finely-formed  head  and  a  pair  of 
large,  clear,  hazel  eyes.  Evidently  it  is  of  good  parent 
age.  The  vicious,  the  sensual  and  the  depraved  mark 
their  offspring  with  the  unmistakable  signs  of  their  moral 
depravity.  You  cannot  mistake  them.  But  this  baby 
has  in  its  poor,  wasted,  suffering  little  face,  in  its  well- 
balanced  head  and  deep,  almost  spiritual  eyes,  the  signs 
of  a  better  origin." 

"  It  ought  at  once  to  be  taken  away  from  the  woman," 
said  Mr.  Dinneford,  in  a  very  decided  manner. 

"  Who  is  to  take  it  ?"  asked  the  missionary. 

Mr.  Dinneford  was  silent. 

"  Neither  you  nor  I  have  any  authority  to  do  so.  If  I 
were  to  see  it  cast  out  upon  the  street,  I  might  have  it 
eent  to  the  almshouse ;  but  until  I  find  it  abandoned  or 
shamefully  abused,  I  have  no  right  to  interfere." 

"  I  would  like  to  see  the  baby,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford, 
on  whose  mind  painful  suggestions  akin  to  those  that 
were  so  disturbing  his  daughter  were  beginning  to  intrude 
themselves. 

"  It  would  hardly  be  prudent  to  go  there  to-day,"  said 
Mr.  Paulding. 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  would  arouse  suspicion ;  and  if  there  is  anything 
wrong,  the  baby  would  drop  out  of  sight.  You  would  not 
find  it  if  you  went  again.  These  people  are  like  birds 
with  their  wings  half  lifted,  and  fly  away  at  the  first 
warning  of  danger.  As  it  is,  I  fear  my  visit  and  in 
quiries  will  be  quite  sufficient  to  the  cause  the  child's  re 
moval  to  another  place." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  201 

Mr.  Dinneford  mused  for  a  while : 

"  There  ought  to  be  some  way  to  reach  a  case  like  this, 
and  there  is,  I  am  sure.  From  what  you  say,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  this  poor  little  waif  may  have  drifted 
out  of  some  pleasant  home,  where  love  would  bless  it 
with  the  tenderest  care,  into  this  hell  of  neglect  and 
cruelty.  It  should  be  rescued  on  the  instant.  It  is  my 
duty — it  is  yours — to  see  that  it  is  done,  and  that  with 
out  delay.  I  will  go  at  once  to  the  mayor  and  state  the 
case.  He  will  send  an  officer  with  me,  I  know,  and  we 
will  take  the  child  by  force.  If  its  real  mother  then 
comes  forward  and  shows  herself  at  all  worthy  to  have 
the  care  of  it,  well ;  if  not,  I  will  see  that  it  is  taken  care 
of.  I  know  where  to  place  it." 

To  this  proposition  Mr.  Paulding  had  no  objection  to 
offer. 

"  If  you  take  that  course,  and  act  promptly,  you  can 
no  doubt  get  possession  of  the  poor  thing.  Indeed,  sir" — 
and  the  missionary  spoke  with  much  earnestness — "  if  men 
of  influence  like  yourself  would  come  here  and  look  the 
evil  of  suffering  and  neglected  children  in  the  face,  and 
then  do  what  they  could  to  destroy  that  evil,  there  would 
soon  be  joy  in  heaven  over  the  good  work  accomplished 
by  their  hands.  I  could  give  you  a  list  of  ten  or  twenty 
influential  citizens  whose  will  would  be  next  to  law  in  a 
matter  like  this  who  could  in  a  month,  if  they  put  heart 
and  hand  to  it,  do  such  a  work  for  humanity  here  as 
would  make  the  angels  glad.  But  they  are  too  busy  with 
their  great  enterprises  to  give  thought  and  effort  1o  a  work 
like  this." 


202  CAST  ADRIFT. 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  missionary's  fac  e.  There  wai 
a  tone  of  discouragement  in  his  voice. 

"  The  great  question  is  what  to  do,"  said  Mr.  Dinne- 
ford.  "  There  are  no  problems  so  hard  to  solve  as  these 
problems  of  social  evil.  If  men  and  women  choose  to 
debase  themselves,  who  is  to  hinder  ?  The  vicious  heart 
seeks  a  vicious  life.  While  the  heart  is  depraved  the  life 
will  be  evil.  So  long  as  the  fountain  is  corrupt  the  water 
will  be  foul." 

"  There  is  a  side  to  all  this  that  most  people  do  not  con 
sider,"  answered  Mr.  Paulding.  "  Self-hurt  is  one  thing, 
hurt  of  the  neighbor  quite  another.  It  may  be  ques 
tioned  whether  society  has  a  right  to  touch  the  individual 
freedom  of  a  member  in  anything  that  affects  himself 
alone.  But  the  moment  he  begins  to  hurt  his  neighbor, 
whether  from  ill-will  or  for  gain,  then  it  is  the  duty  of  so 
ciety  to  restrain  him.  The  common  weal  demands  this, 
to  say  nothing  of  Christian  obligation.  If  a  man  were 
to  set  up  an  exhibition  in  our  city  dangerous  to  life  and 
limb,  but  so  fascinating  as  to  attract  large  numbers  to 
witness  and  participate  therein,  and  if  hundreds  were 
maimed  or  killed  every  year,  do  you  think  any  one  would 
question  the  right  of  our  authorities  to  repress  it  ?  And 
yet  to-day  there  are  in  our  city  more  than  twenty  thou 
sand  pernons  who  live  by  doing  things  a  thousand  times 
more  hurtful  to  the  people  than  any  such  exhibition  could 
possibly  be.  And  what  is  marvelous  to  think  of,  the 
larger  part  of  these  persons  are  actually  licensed  by  the 
State  to  get  gain  b)  hurting,  depraving  and  destroying 
fche  people.  Think  of  it,  Mr.  Dinneforrl!  The  whole 


CAST  ADRIFT.  203 

question  lies  in  a  nutshell.  There  is  no  difficulty  about 
the  problem.  Restrain  men  from  doing  harm  to  each 
other,  and  the  work  is  more  than  half  done." 

"  Is  not  the  law  all  the  while  doing  this  ?" 

"  The  law,"  was  answered.  "  is  weakly  dealing  with  ef 
fect — how  weakly  let  prison  and  police  statistics  show. 
Forty  thousand  arrests  in  our  city  for  a  single  year,  and 
the  cause  of  these  arrests  clearly  traced  to  the  liquor 
licenses  granted  to  five  or  six  thousand  persons  to  make 
money  by  debasing  and  degrading  the  people.  If  all  of 
these  were  engaged  in  useful  employments,  serving,  as 
every  true  citizen  is  bound  to  do,  the  common  good,  do 
you  think  we  should  have  so  sad  and  sickening  a  record  ? 
No,  sir!  We  must  go  back  to  the  causes  of  things. 
Nothing  but  radical  work  will  do." 

"  You  think,  then,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  "  that  the  true 
remedy  for  all  these  dreadful  social  evils  lies  in  restrictive 
legislation  ?" 

"  Restrictive  only  on  the  principles  of  eternal  right," 
answered  the  missionary.  "Man's  freedom  ovvr  him 
self  must  not  be  touched.  Only  his  freedom  to  hurt 
his  neighbor  must  be  abridged.  Here  society  has  a 
right  to  put  bonds  on  its  members — to  say  to  each  in 
dividual,  You  are  free  to  do  anything  by  which  your 
neighbor  is  served,  but  nothing  to  harm  him.  Here 
is  where  the  discrimination  must  be  made ;  and  when 
the  mass  of  the  people  come  to  see  this,  we  shall  have 
the  beginning  of  a  new  day.  There  will  then  be  hope 
for  such  poor  wretches  as  crowd  this  region;  or  if 
most  of  them  are  so  far  lost  as  to  be  without  hope,  their 


204  CAST  ADRIFT 

places,  when  they  die,  will  not  be  filled  willi  new  recruit? 
for  the  army  of  perdition." 

"If  the  laws  we  now  have  were  only  executed,"  said 
Mr.  Dinneford,  "  there  might  be  hope  in  our  legislative 
restrictions.  But  the  people  are  defrauded  of  justice 
through  defects  in  its  machinery.  There  are  combina 
tions  to  defeat  good  laws.  There  are  men  holding  high 
office  notoriously  in  league  with  scoundrels  who  prey 
upon  the  people.  Through  these,  justice  perpetually 
fails." 

"  The  people  are  alone  to  blame,"  replied  the  mission 
ary.  "  Each  is  busy  with  his  farm  and  his  merchandise 
— with  his  own  affairs,  regardless  of  his  neighbor.  The 
common  good  is  nothing,  so  that  his  own  good  is  served. 
Each  weakly  folds  his  hands  and  is  sorry  when  these 
troublesome  questions  are  brought  to  his  notice,  but 
doesn't  see  that  he  can  do  anything.  Nor  can  the 
people,  unless  some  strong  and  influential  leaders  rally 
them,  and,  like  great  generals,  lead  them  to  the  battle. 
A.S  I  said  a  little  while  ago,  there  are  ten  or  twenty  men 
m  this  city  who,  if  they  could  be  made  to  feel  their  high 
responsibility — who,  if  they  could  be  induced  to  look 
away  for  a  brief  period  from  their  great  enterprises  and 
concentrate  thought  and  effort  upon  these  questions  of 
social  evil,  abuse  of  justice  and  violations  of  law — would 
in  a  single  month  inaugurate  reforms  and  set  agencies  to 
work  that  would  soon  produce  marvelous  changes.  They 
need  not  touch  the  rottenness  of  this  half  dead  carcass 
with  knife  or  poultice.  Only  let  them  cut  off  the  sources 
if  pollution  and  disease,  and  the  purified  air  will  do  the 


C!AST  ADRIFT.  205 

work  of  restoration  where  moral  vitality  remain!,  of 
hasten  the  end  in  those  who  are  debased  beyond  hope." 

"  What  could  these  men  do  ?  Where  would  their  work 
begin?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  Their  own  intelligence  would  soon  discover  the  way 
to  do  this  work  if  their  hearts  were  in  it.  Men  who  can 
organize  and  successfully  conduct  great  financial  and 
industrial  enterprises,  who  know  how  to  control  the 
wealth  and  power  of  the  country  and  lead  the  people 
almost  at  will,  would  hardly  be  at  fault  in  the  adjust 
ment  of  a  matter  like  this.  What  would  be  the  money 
influence  of  { whisky  rings*  and  gambling  associations, 
se%  against  the  social  and  money  influence  of  these  men  ? 
Nothing,  sir,  nothing!  Do  you  think  we  should  long 
have  over  six  thousand  bars  and  nearly  four  hundred  lot 
tery-policy  shops  in  our  city  if  the  men  to  whom  I  refer 
were  to  take  the  matter  in  hand  ?" 

"Are  there  so  many  policy-shops?"  asked  Mr.  Dinne 
ford,  in  surprise. 

"  There  may  be  more.  You  will  find  them  by  scorea 
in  every  locality  where  poor  and  ignorant  people  are 
crowded  together,  sucking  out  their  substance,  and  in  the 
neighborhood  of  all  the  market-houses  and  manufacto 
ries,  gathering  in  spoil.  The  harm  they  are  doing  ia 
beyond  computation.  The  men  who  ccntrol  this  unlaw 
ful  business  are  rich  and  closely  organized.  They  gather 
in  their  dishonest  gains  at  the  rate  of  hundreds  of  thou- 
pands  of  dollars  every  year,  and  know  how  and  where 
to  use  this  money  for  the  protection  of  their  agents  in 
tie  work  of  defrauding  the  people,  and  the  people  art 

13 


206  CAST  ADRIFT. 

helpless  because  our  men  of  wealth  and  influence  have 
no  time  to  give  to  public  justice  or  the  suppression  of 
great  social  wrongs.  With  them,  as  things  now  are,  rests 
the  chief  responsibility.  They  have  the  intelligence,  the 
wealth  and  the  public  confidence,  and  are  fully  equal  to 
the  task  if  they  will  put  their  hands  to  the  work.  Let 
them  but  lift  the  standard  and  sound  the  trumpet  of 
reform,  and  the  people  will  rally  instantly  at  the  call. 
It  must  not  be  a  mere  spasmodic  effort — a  public  meet 
ing  with  wordy  resolutions  and  strong  speeches  only — but 
organized  work  based  on  true  principles  of  social  order 
and  the  just  rights  of  the  people." 

"You  are  very  much  in  earnest  about  this  matter," 
said  Mr.  Dinneford,  seeing  how  excited  the  missionary 
had  grown. 

"And  so  would  you  and  every  other  good  citizen 
become  if,  standing  face  to  face,  as  I  do  daily,  with  this 
awful  debasement  and  crime  and  suffering,  you  were  able 
to  comprehend  something  of  its  real  character.  If  I 
could  get  the  influential  citizens  to  whom  I  have  referred 
to  come  here  and  see  for  themselves,  to  look  upon  this 
pandemonium  in  their  midst  and  take  in  an  adequate 
idea  of  its  character,  significance  and  aggressive  force, 
there  would  be  some  hope  of  making  them  see  their  duty, 
of  arousing  them  to  action.  But  they  stand  aloof,  busy 
with  personal  and  material  interest,  while  thousands  of 
men,  women  and  children  are  yearly  destroyed,  soul  and 
body,  through  their  indifference  to  duty  and  ignorance  of 
their  fellows'  suffering." 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  such  things,"  answered  Mr.  Dinne< 


CAST  ADRIFT.  207 

ford,  who  felt  the  remarks  of  Mr.  Paul  ding  as  almost  per* 
Bonal. 

•'  Yes,  it  is  easy  to  say  them,"  returned  the  missionary, 
his  voice  dropping  to  a  lower  key,  "  and  it  may  be  of  lit 
tle  use  to  say  them.  I  am  sometimes  almost  in  despair, 
standing  so  nearly  alone  as  I  do  with  my  feet  on  the  very 
brink  of  this  devastating  flood  of  evil,  and  getting  back 
only  faint  echoes  to  my  calls  for  help.  But  when  year 
after  year  I  see  some  sheaves  coming  in  as  the  reward 
of  my  efforts  and  of  the  few  noble  hearts  that  work  with 
me,  I  thank  God  and  take  courage,  and  I  lift  my  voice 
and  call  more  loudly  for  help,  trusting  that  I  may  be 
heard  by  some  who,  if  they  would  only  come  up  to  the 
help  of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty,  would  scatter  his 
foes  like  chaff  on  the  threshing-floor.  But  I  am  holding 
you  back  from  your  purpose  to  visit  the  mayor ;  I  think 
you  had  better  act  promptly  if  you  would  get  possession 
of  the  child.  I  shall  be  interested  in  the  result,  and  will 
take  it  as  a  favor  if  you  will  call  at  the  mission  again/' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHEN  Mr.  Dinneford  and  the  policeman  sent  by  the 
mayor  at  his  solicitation  visited  Grubb's  court,  the 
baby  was  not  to  be  found.  The  room  in  which  it  had 
been  seen  by  Mr.  Paulding  was  vacant.  Such  a  room  at 
it  was! — low  and  narrow,  with  bare,  blackened  walls, 
the  single  window  having  scarcely  two  whole  panes  of 
glass,  the  air  loaded  with  the  foulness  that  exhaled  from 
the  filth-covered  floor,  the  only  furniture  a  rough  box  and 
i  dirty  old  straw  bed  lying  in  a  corner. 

As  Mr.  Dinneford  stood  at  the  door  of  this  room  and 
inhaled  its  fetid  air,  he  grew  sick,  almost  faint.  Step 
ping  back,  with  a  shocked  and  disgusted  look  on  his  face, 
he  said  to  the  policeman, 

"  There  must  be  a  mistake.    This  cannot  be  the  room." 

Two  or  three  children  and  a  coarse,  half-clothed  woman, 
seeing  a  gentleman  going  into  the  house  accompanied  by 
a  policeman,  had  followed  them  closely  up  stairs. 

"  Who  lives  in  this  room  ?"  asked  the  policeman,  ad 
dressing  the  woman. 

"  Don't  know  as  anybody  lives  there  now,"  she  replied, 
with  evident  evasion. 

"  Who  did  live  here  ?"  demanded  the  policeman. 

"  Oh,  lots !"  returned  the  woman,  curtly. 

208 


CAST  ADRIFT.  209 

*  I  want  x>  know  who  lived  here  last,"  said  the  police* 
man,  a  little  sternly. 

"  Can't  say — never  keep  the  run  of  'em,"  answered  the 
woman,  with  more  indifference  than  she  felt.  "  Goin'  and 
eomin'  all  the  while.  Maybe  it  was  Poll  Davis." 

"Had  she  a  baby?" 

The  woman  gave  a  vulgar  laugh  as  she  replied :  "  I 
rather  think  not." 

"  It  was  Moll  Fling,"  said  one  of  the  children,  "  and 
she  had  a  baby." 

"  When  was  she  here  last  ?"  inquired  the  policeman. 
The  woman,  unseen  by  the  latter,  raised  her  fist  and 
threatened  the  child,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least 
afraid  of  her,  for  she  answered  promptly : 

"  She  went  away  about  an  hour  ago." 

"And  took  the  baby?" 

"  Yes.  You  see  Mr.  Paulding  was  here  Asking  about 
Jie  baby,  and  she  got  scared." 

"  Why  should  that  scare  her?" 

"  I  don't  know,  only  it  isn't  her  baby." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  'Cause  it  isn't — I  know  it  isn't.  She's  paid  to  take 
care  of  it." 

«*  Who  by?" 

"  Pinky  Swett." 

"Who's  Pinky  Swett?" 

«  Don't  you  know  Pinky  Swett?"  and  the  child  seemed 
half  surprised. 

" Where  does  Pinky  Swett  live?"  asked  the  police- 
(nan. 

18 »  O 


210  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  She  did  live  next  door  for  a  while,  but  I  don't  knon 
ahere  she's  gone." 

Nothing  beyond  this  could  be  ascertained.  But  having 
learned  the  names  of  the  women  who  had  possession  of 
the  child,  the  policeman  said  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
about  discovering  them.  It  might  take  a  little  time,  but 
they  could  not  escape  the  vigilance  of  the  police. 

With  this  assurance,  Mr.  Diuneford  hastened  from  the 
polluted  air  of  Grubb's  court,  and  made  his  way  to  the 
mission  in  Briar  street,  in  order  to  have  some  further  con- 
ference  with  Mr.  Paulding. 

"As  I  feared,"  said  the  missionary,  on  learning  that  the 
baby  could  not  be  found.  "  These  creatures  are  as  keen 
of  scent  as  Indians,  and  know  the  smallest  sign  of  dan 
ger.  It  is  very  plain  that  there  is  something  wrong — 
that  these  women  have  no  natural  right  to  the  child,  and 
that  they  are  not  using  it  to  beg  with." 

"  Do  you  know  a  woman  called  Pinky  Swett  ?"  asked 
the  policeman. 

"I've  heard  of  her,  but  do  not  know  her  by  sight. 
She  bears  a  hard  reputation  even  here,  and  adds  to  her 
many  evil  accomplishments  the  special  one  of  adroit  rob 
bery.  A  victim  lured  to  her  den  rarely  escapes  without 
loss  of  watch  or  pocket-book.  And  not  one  in  a  hundred 
dares  to  give  information,  for  this  would  expose  him  to 
the  public,  and  so  her  crimes  are  covered.  Pinky  Swett 
is  not  the  one  to  bother  herself  about  a  baby  unless  ill 
parentage  be  known,  and  not  then  unless  the  kn  ywledga 
can  be  turned  to  advantage." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  211 

«'  The  first  thing  to  be  done,  then,  is  to  find  this  woman,* 
*aid  the  policeman. 

"  That  will  not  be  very  hard  work.  But  finding  the 
baby,  if  she  thinks  you  are  after  it,  would  not  be  so  easy," 
returned  Mr.  Paulding.  "  She's  as  cunning  as  a  fox." 

"  We  shall  see.  If  the  chief  of  police  undertakes  to 
find  the  baby,  it  won't  be  out  of  sight  long.  You'd  better 
confer  with  the  mayor  again,"  added  the  policeman,  ad 
dressing  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  I  will  do  so  without  delay,"  returned  that  gentleman. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  here  again  soon,"  said  the  mission 
ary  as  Mr.  Dinneford  was  about  going.  "  If  I  can  help 
you  in  any  way,  I  shall  do  so  gladly." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  you  can  render  good  ser 
vice."  Then,  in  half  apology,  and  to  conceal  the  real 
concern  at  his  heart,  Mr.  Dinneford  added,  "  Somehow, 
and  strangely  enough  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  have 
allowed  myself  to  get  drawn  into  this  thing,  and  once  in, 
the  natural  persistence  of  my  character  leads  me  to  go  on 
to  the  end.  I  am  one  of  those  who  cannot  bear  to  give 
up  or  acknowledge  a  defeat ;  and  so,  having  set  my  hand 
to  this  work,  I  am  going  to  see  it  through." 

When  the  little  girl  who  had  taken  Edith  to  the  mis 
sion-house  in  Briar  street  got  home  and  told  her  story, 
there  was  a  ripple  of  excitement  in  that  part  of  Grubb's 
court  where  she  lived,  and  a  new  interest  was  felt  in  the 
poor  neglected  baby.  Mr.  Paulding's  visit  and  inquiries 
added  to  this  interest.  It  had  been  several  days  since 
Pinky  Swett's  last  visit  to  the  child  to  see  that  it  was 
»afe.  On  the  morning  after  Edith's  call  at  the  missioc 


212  CAST  ADRIFT. 

she  came  in  about  ten  o'clock,  and  heard  the  news.  JL 
less  than  twenty  minutes  the  child  and  the  woman  who 
had  charge  of  it  both  disappeared  from  Grubb's  court 
Pinky  sent  them  to  her  own  room,  not  many  squares  dis 
tant,  and  then  drew  from  the  little  girl  who  was  in  Edith's 
sewing-class  all  she  knew  about  that  young  lady.  It  waa 
not  much  that  the  child  could  tell.  She  was  very  sweet 
and  good  and  handsome,  and  wore  such  beautiful  clothes, 
was  so  kind  and  patient  with  the  girls,  but  she  did  not 
remember  her  name,  thought  it  was  Edith. 

"  Now,  see  here,"  said  Pinky,  and  she  put  some  money 
into  the  child's  hand ;  "  I  want  you  to  find  out  for  me 
what  her  name  is  and  where  she  lives.  Mind,  you  must 
be  very  careful  to  remember." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  for?"  asked  the  little 
girl. 

"  That'u  none  of  your  business.  Do  what  I  tell  you," 
returned  Pinky,  with  impatience ;  "  and  if  you  do  it  right, 
I'll  give  you  a  quarter  more.  When  do  you  go  again  ?" 

"  Next  week,  on  Thursday." 

"  Not  till  next  Thursday !"  exclaimed  Pinky,  in  a  tone 
of  disappointment. 

"The  school's  only  once  a  week." 

Pinky  chafed  a  good  deal,  but  it  was  of  no  use ;  she 
must  wait. 

"You'll  be  sure  and  go  next  Thursday?"  she  said. 

"  If  mother  lets  me,"  replied  the  child. 

"Oh,  I'll  see  to  that;  I'll  make  her  let  you.  What 
tame  does  the  school  go  in  ?" 

"At  three  o'clock." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  213 

"  Very  well.  You  wait  for  me.  I'll  come  round  here 
at  half-pist  two,  and  go  with  you.  I  want  to  see  the 
young  lady.  They'll  let  me  come  into  the  school  and 
(earn  to  sew,  won't  they  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  you're  too  big,  and  you  don't  want  to 
learn." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  don't  ?" 

"  Because  I  do." 

Pinky  laughed,  and  then  said, 

"You'll  wait  for  me?" 

"  Yes,  if  mother  says  so." 

"All  right;"  and  Pinky  hurried  away  to  take  measuies 
for  hiding  the  baby  from  a  search  that  she  felt  almost 
sure  was  about  being  made.  The  first  thing  she  did  was 
to  soundly  abuse  the  woman  in  whose  care  she  had  placed 
the  hapless  child  for  her  neglect  and  ill  treatment,  both 
of  which  were  too  manifest,  and  then  to  send  her  away. 
Under  the  new  aspect  of  affairs  she  did  not  mean  to  trust 
this  woman,  nor  indeed  to  trust  anybody  who  knew  any 
thing  of  the  inquiries  which  had  been  made  about  the  child. 
A  new  nurse  must  be  found,  and  she  must  live  as  far  away 
from  the  old  locality  as  possible.  Pinky  was  not  one  in 
clined  to  put  things  off.  Thought  and  act  were  always 
close  together.  Scarcely  had  the  woman  been  gone  ten 
minutes,  before,  bundling  the  baby  in  a  shawl,  she  started 
off  to  find  a  safer  hiding-place.  This  time  she  was  more 
careful  about  the  character  and  habits  of  the  person 
selected  for  a  nurse,  and  the  baby's  condition  was  greatly 
improved.  The  woman  in  whose  charge  she  placed  it 
tvas  poor,  but  neither  drunken  nor  depraved.  Pinky 


214  CAST  ADRIFT. 

arranged  "with  her  to  take  the  care  of  it  for  two  dollan 
a  week,  and  supplied  it  with  clean  and  comfortable 
clothing.  Even  she,  wicked  and  vile  as  she  was,  could 
not  help  being  touched  by  the  change  that  appeared  in 
the  baby's  shrunken  face,  and  in  its  sad  but  beauiiful 
eyes,  after  its  wasted  little  body  had  been  cleansed  and 
clothed  in  clean,  warm  garments  and  it  had  taken  its 
fill  of  nourishing  food. 

"  It's  a  shame,  the  way  it  has  been  abused,"  said  Pinky, 
speaking  from  an  impulse  of  kindness  such  as  rarely 
swelled  in  her  evil  heart. 

"A  crying  shame,"  answered  the  woman  as  she  drew 
the  baby  close  against  her  bosom  and  gazed  down  upon 
its  pitiful  face,  and  into  the  large  brown  eyes  that  were 
lifted  to  hers  in  mute  appeal. 

The  real  motherly  tenderness  that  was  in  this  woman's 
heart  was  quickly  perceived  by  the  child,  who  did  not 
move  its  eyes  from  hers,  but  lay  perfectly  still,  gazing  up 
at  her  in  a  kind  of  easeful  rest  such  as  it  had  never  be 
fore  known.  She  spoke  to  it  in  loving  tones,  touched  its 
thin  cheeks  with  her  finger  in  playful  caresses,  kissed  it 
on  its  lips  and  forehead,  hugged  it  to  her  bosom;  and 
still  the  eyes  were  fixed  on  hers  in  a  strange  baby- won 
der,  though  not  the  faintest  glinting  of  a  smile  played  on 
its  lips  or  over  its  serious  face.  Had  it  never  learned  to 
ginile  ? 

At  last  the  poor  thin  lips  curved  a  little,  crushing  out 
the  lines  of  suffering,  and  into  the  eyes  there  came  a 
loving  glance  in  place  of  the  fixed,  wondering  look  that 
•vas  almost  a  stare.  A  slight  lifting  of  the  hands,  a  mo- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  215 

don  of  the  head,  a  thrill  through  the  whole  body  came 
next,  and  then  a  tender  cooing  sound. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  beautiful  eyes?"  said  the 
woman.  "  It  will  be  a  splendid  baby  when  it  has  picked 
up  a  little." 

"  Let  it  pick  up  as  fast  as  it  can,"  returned  Pinky ; 
••but  mind  what  I  say:  you  are  to  be  mum.  Here's 
your  pay  for  the  first  week,  and  you  shall  have  it  fair 
and  square  always.  Call  it  your  own  baby,  if  you  will, 
or  your  grandson.  Yes,  that's  better.  He's  the  child  of 
your  dead  daughter,  just  sent  to  you  from  somewhere  out 
of  town.  So  take  good  care  of  him,  and  keep  your  mouth 
shut.  I'll  be  round  again  in  a  little  while." 

And  with  this  injunction  Pinky  went  away.  On  the 
next  Thursday  she  visited  the  St.  John's  mission  sewing- 
school  in  company  with  the  little  girl  from  Grubb's 
court,  but  greatly  to  her  disappointment  Edith  did  not 
make  her  appearance.  There  were  four  or  frve  ladies  in 
attendance  on  the  school,  which,  under  the  superintend 
ence  of  one  of  them,  a  woman  past  middle  life,  with  a 
pale,  serious  face  and  a  voice  clear  and  sweet,  was  con 
ducted  with  an  order  and  decorum  not  often  maintained 
among  a  class  of  children  such  as  were  there  gathered  to 
gether. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Pinky  had  found  herself  so  re~ 
pressed  and  ill  at  ease.  There  was  a  spiritual  atmosphere 
in  the  place  that  did  not  vitalize  her  blood.  She  felt  a 
sense  of  constriction  and  suffocation.  She  had  taken  her 
Beat  in  the  class  taught  usually  by  Edith,  with  the  inten 
tion  of  studying  that  young  lady  and  finding  out  all  she 


216  CAST  ADRIFT. 

could  about  her,  not  doubting  her  ability  to  act  the  pan 
in  hand  with  perfect  self-possession.  But  she  had  not 
been  in  the  room  a  minute  before  confidence  began  to 
die,  and  very  soon  she  found  herself  ill  at  ease  and  con 
scious  of  being  out  of  her  place.  The  bold,  bad  woman  felt 
weak  and  abashed.  An  unseen  sphere  of  purity  and 
Christian  love  surrounded  and  touched  her  soul  with  as 
palpable  an  impression  as  outward  things  give  to  the 
body.  She  had  something  of  the  inward  distress  and 
pain  a  devil  would  feel  if  lifted  into  the  pure  air  of 
heaven,  and  the  same  desire  to  escape  and  plunge  back 
into  the  dense  and  impure  atmosphere  in  which  evil  finds 
its  life  and  enjoyment.  If  she  had  come  with  any  good 
purpose,  it  would  have  been  different,  but  evil,  and  only 
evil,  was  in  her  heart;  and  when  this  felt  the  sphere  of  love 
and  purity,  her  breast  was  constricted  and  life  seemed 
going  out  of  her. 

It  was  little  less  than  torture  to  Pinky  for  the  short 
time  she  remained.  As  soon  as  she  was  satisfied  that 
Edith  would  not  be  there,  she  threw  down  the  garment  on 
which  she  had  been  pretending  to  sew,  and  almost  ran 
from  the  room. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  ?"  asked  the  lady  who  was  teaching  the 
class,  looking  in  some  surprise  after  the  hurrying  figure. 

"  It's' Pinky  Swett,"  answered  the  child  from  Grubb's 
court.  "She  wanted  to  see  our  teacher." 

"  Who  is  your  regular  teacher  ?"  was  inquired. 

"  Don't  remember  her  name." 

"  It's  Edith,"  spoke  up  one  of  the  girls.  "Mrs.  Martiii 
sailed  her  that." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  217 

"What  did  tVis  Pinky  Swett  want  to  see  her  about?" 
"  Don't  know,"  answered  the  child  as  she  remembered 

the  money  Pinky  had  given  her  and  the  promise  of  more. 
The  teacher  questioned  no  further,  but  went  on  with 

her  work  in  the  clawt 

10 


CHAPTER  Xvi.       . 

IT   was  past   midday  when   Mr    Dinneford  returned 
h  ./me  after  his  fruitless  search.     Edith,  who  had  been 
waiting  for  hours  in  restless  suspense,  heard  his  step  in 
the  hall,  and  ran  down  to  meet  him. 

"  Did  you  see  the  baby  ?"  she  asked,  trying  to  keep  her 
agitation  down. 

Mr.  Dinneford  only  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  not,  father  ?"     Her  voice  choked. 

"  It  could  not  be  found." 

"  You  saw  Mr.  Paulding  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Didn't  he  find  the  baby?" 

"Oh  yes.  But  when  I  went  to  Grubb's  court  this 
morning,  it  was  not  there,  and  no  one  could  or  would  give 
any  information  about  it.  As  the  missionary  feared,  those 
having  possession  of  the  baby  had  taken  alarm  and  re 
moved  it  to  another  place.  But  I  have  seen  the  mayor 
and  some  of  the  police,  and  got  them  interested.  It  will 
not  be  possible  to  hide  the  child  for  any  length  of  time." 

"  You  said  that  Mr.  Paulding  saw  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  Edith's  voice  trembled  as  she 
asked  the  question. 

"  He  thinks  there  is  something  wrong/ 
218 


CA81  ADRIFT.  219 

«  Did  he  tell  you  how  the  baby  looked  ?" 

"  He  said  that  it  had  large,  beautiful  brown  eyes." 

Edith  clasped  her  hands,  and  drew  them  tightly  against 
her  bosom 

"  Oh,  father !  if  it  should  be  my  baby !" 

"My  dear,  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  putting 
his  arms  about  Edith  and  holding  her  tightly,  "you 
torture  yourself  with  a  wild  dream.  The  thing  is  im 
possible." 

"It  is  somebody's  baby," sobbed  Edith, her  face  on  he? 
father's  breast,  "  and  it  may  be  mine.  Who  knows  ?" 

"  We  will  do  our  best  to  find  it,"  returned  Mr.  Dinpe- 
ford,  "  and  then  do  what  Christian  charity  demands.  I 
am  in  earnest  so  far,  and  will  leave  nothing  undone,  you 
may  rest  assured.  The  police  have  the  mayor's  instruc 
tions  to  find  the  baby  and  give  it  into  my  care,  and  I  d<» 
not  think  we  shall  have  long  to  wait." 

An  ear  they  thought  not  of,  heard  all  this.  Mrs.  Din- 
neford's  suspicions  had  been  aroused  by  many  things  in 
Edith's  manner  and  conduct  of  late,  and  she  had  watched 
her  every  look  and  word  and  movement  with  a  keenness 
of  observation  that  let  nothing  escape.  Careful  as  her 
husband  and  daughter  were  in  their  interviews,  it  was  im 
possible  to  conceal  anything  from  eyes  that  never  failed 
in  watchfulness.  An  unguarded  word  here,  a  look  of 
mutual  intelligence  there,  a  sudden  silence  when  she  ap 
peared,  an  unusual  soberness  of  demeanor  and  evident 
absorbed  interest  in  something  they  were  careful  to  con 
ceal,  had  the  effect  to  quicken  all  Mrs.  Dinneford '*  alarm* 
and  suspicions. 


220  CAST  ADRIFT. 

She  had  seen  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  a  brief  but  ex 
t'ited  interview  pass  between  Edith  and  her  father  as  (he 
latter  stood  in  the  vestibule  that  morning,  and  she  had 
noticed  the  almost  wild  look  on  her  daughter's  face  aa 
she  hastened  back  along  the  hall  and  ran  up  to  her  room. 
Here  she  stayed  alone  for  over  an  hour,  and  then  came 
down  to  the  parlor,  where  she  remained  restless,  moving 
about  or  standing  by  the  window  for  a  greater  part  of  the 
morning. 

There  was  something  more  than  usual  on  hand.  Guilt 
in  its  guesses  came  near  the  truth.  What  could  all  this 

O 

mean,  if  it  had  not  something  to  do  with  the  cast-off 
baby  ?  Certainty  at  last  came.  She  was  in  the  dining- 
room  when  Edith  ran  down  to  meet  her  father  in  the  hall, 
and  slipped  noiselessly  and  unobserved  into  one  of  the 
parlors,  where,  concealed  by  a  curtain,  she  heard  every 
thing  that  passed  between  her  husband  and  daughter. 

Still  as  death  she  stood,  holding  down  the  strong  pulses 
of  her  heart.  From  the  hall  Edith  and  her  father 
turned  into  one  of  the  parlors — the  same  in  which  Mrs. 
Dinneford  was  concealed  behind  the  curtain — and  sat 
down. 

"It  had  large  brown  eyes?"  said  Edith,  a  yearning 
tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  and  a  finely-formed  head,  showing  good  parent. 
age,"  returned  the  father. 

"  Didn't  you  find  out  who  the  women  were — the  two 
had  women  the  little  girl  told  me  about?  If  we  had 
their  names,  the  police  could  find  them.  The  little  girl's 
mother  must  know  who  they  are," 


CAST  ADRIFT.  221 

u  We  have  the  name  of  one  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Dinne- 
ford.  "  She  is  called  Pinky  Swett,  and  it  can't  be  long 
before  the  police  are  on  her  track.  She  is  said  to  be  a 
desperate  character.  Nothing  more  can  be  done  now; 
we  must  wait  until  the  police  work  up  the  affair.  I  will 
call  at  the  mayor's  office  in  the  morning  and  find  out 
what  has  been  done." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  heard  no  more.  The  bell  rang,  and 
her  husband  and  daughter  left  the  parlor  and  went 
up  stairs.  The  moment  they  were  beyond  observation 
she  glided  noiselessly  through  the  hall,  and  reached  her 
chamber  without  being  noticed.  Soon  afterward  she 
came  down,  dressed  for  visiting,  and  went  out  hastily, 
her  veil  closely  drawn.  Her  manner  was  hurried.  De 
scending  the  steps,  she  stood  for  a  single  moment,  as  if 
hesitating  which  way  to  go,  and  then  moved  off  rapidly. 
Soon  she  had  passed  out  of  the  fashionable  neighborhood 
in  which  she  lived.  After  this  she  walked  more  slowly, 
and  with  the  air  of  one  whose  mind  was  in  doubt  or  hesi 
tation.  Once  she  stopped,  and  turning  about,  slowly 
retraced  her  steps  for  the  distance  of  a  square.  Then 
she  wheeled  around,  as  if  from  some  new  and  strong 
resolve,  and  went  on  again.  At  last  she  paused  before  a 
respectable-looking  house  of  moderate  size  in  a  neighbor 
hood  remote  from  the  busier  and  more  thronged  parts  of 
the  city.  The  shutters  were  all  bowed  down  to  the  par 
lor,  and  the  house  had  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  look.  Mrs. 
Dinneford  gave  a  quick,  anxious  glance  up  and  down 
the  street,  and  then  hurriedly  ascended  the  steps  and 
*ang  the  bell. 


222  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Is  Mrs.  Hoyt  in  ?"  she  asked  of  a  stupid-looking  ^ir* 
who  came  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  answered. 

"  Tell  her  a  lady  wants  to  see  her ;"  and  she  passed 
into  the  plainly-furnished  parlor.  There  were  no  pictures 
on  the  walls  nor  ornaments  on  the  mantel-piece,  nor  any 
evidence  of  taste — nothing  home-like — in  the  shadowed 
room,  the  atmosphere  of  which  was  close  and  heavy. 
She  waited  here  for  a  few  moments,  when  there  was  a  rus 
tie  of  garments  and  the  sound  of  light,  quick  feet  on  the 
stairs.  A  small,  dark-eyed,  sallow-faced  woman  entered 
the  parlor. 

"  Mrs.  Bray — no,  Mrs.  Hoyt." 

"  Mrs.  Dinneford ;"  and  the  two  women  stood  face  to 
face  for  a  few  moments,  each  regarding  the  other  keenly. 

"Mrs.  Hoyt — don't  forget,"  said  the  former,  with  a 
warning  emphasis  in  her  voice.  "  Mrs.  Bray  is  dead." 

In  her  heart  Mrs.  Dinneford  wished  that  it  were  in 
deed  so. 

"  Anything  wrong  ?"  asked  the  black-eyed  little  woman, 

"Do  you  know  a  Pinky  Swett?"  asked  Mrs.  Dinne 
ford,  abruptly. 

Mrs.  Hoyt — so  we  must  now  call  her — betrayed  surprise 
at  this  question,  and  was  about  answering  "  No,"  but 
checked  herself  and  gave  a  half-hesitating  "Yes,"  add 
ing  the  question,  "  What  about  her  ?" 

Before  Mrs.  Dinneford  could  reply,  however,  Mrs. 
Hoyt  took  hold  of  her  arm  and  said,  "  Come  up  to  my 
room.  Walls  have  ea  rs  sometimes,  and  I  will  not  answei 
<br  these." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  223 

Mrs.  Dinneford  went  with  her  up  stairs  to  a  chamber 
hi  the  rear  part  of  the  building. 

"  We  shall  be  out  of  earshot  here,"  said  Mrs.  Hoyt  as 
she  closed  the  door,  locking  it  at  the  same  time.  "  And 
now  tell  me  what's  up,  and  what  about  Pinky  Swett." 

•'  You  know  her  ?" 

"Yes,  slightly." 

"  More  than  slightly,  I  guess." 

Mrs.  Hoyt's  eyes  flashed  impatiently.  Mrs.  Dinneford 
saw  it,  and  took  warning. 

"  She's  got  that  cursed  baby." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  No  matter  how  I  know.  It's  enough  that  I  know. 
Who  is  she?" 

"That  question  may  be  hard  to  answer.  About  al] 
I  know  of  her  is  that  she  came  from  the  country  a 
few  years  ago,  and  has  been  drifting  about  here  ever 
since." 

"  What  is  she  doing  with  that  baby  ?  and  how  did  she 
get  hold  of  it?" 

"  Questions  more  easily  asked  than  answered." 

"Pshaw!  I  don't  want  any  beating  about  the  bush, 
Mrs.  Bray  " 

"  Mrs.  Hoyt,"  said  the  person  addressed. 

"  Oh,  well,  Mrs.  Hoyt,  then.  We  ought  to  understand 
each  other  by  this  time." 

"  I  guess  we  do ;"  and  the  little  woman  arched  he* 
brows. 

"  I  don't  want  any  beating  about  the  bush,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Dinneford.  "  I  am  here  on  business." 


224  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Very  well ;  let's  to  business,  then ;"  and  Mrs.  Hoyt 
leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"Edith  knows  that  this  woman  has  the  baby,"  sai<? 
Mrs.  Dinneford. 

"What !"  and  Mrs.  Hoyt  started  to  her  feet. 

"  The  mayor  has  been  seen,  and  the  police  are  after  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"Enough  that  I  know.  And  now,  Mrs.  Hoyt,  this 
thing  musf  come  to  an  end,  and  there  is  not  an  instant  to 
be  lost.  Has  Pinky  Swett,  as  she  is  called,  been  told 
where  the  baby  came  from  ?" 

"  Not  by  me." 

"  By  anybody  ?" 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  say." 

"  What  has  become  of  the  woman  I  gave  it  to  ?" 

"  She's  about  somewhere." 

"When  did  you  see  her?" 

Mrs.  Hoyt  pretended  to  think  for  seme  moments,  and 
then  replied : 

"  Not  for  a  month  or  two." 

" Had  she  the  baby  then?" 

"  No  ;  she  was  rid  of  it  long  before  that" 

"  Did  she  know  this  Pinky  Swett?" 

"Yes." 

"  Curse  the  brat !  If  I'd  thought  all  this  trouble  was 
to  come,  I'd  have  smothered  it  before  it  was  half  an  hour 
old." 

"  Risky  business,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hoyt 

"  Safer  than  to  have  let  it  live,"  said  Mrs.  Dinneford,  a 
hard,  evil  expression  settling  around  her  mouth.  "  And 


CAST  ADRIFT.  225 

now  I  want  the  thing  done.  You  understand.  Find 
this  Pinky  Swett.  The  police  are  after  her,  and  may  be 
ahead  of  you.  I  am  desperate,  you  see.  Anything  but 
the  discovery  and  possession  of  this  child  by  Edith.  It 
must  be  got  out  of  the  way.  If  it  will  not  starve,  it  must, 
drown." 

Mrs.  Dinneford's  face  was  distorted  by  the  strength  of 
her  evil  passions.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  fire,  flashing 
now,  and  now  glaring  like  those  of  a  wild  animal. 

"  It  might  fall  out  of  a  window,"  said  Mrs.  Hoyt,  in  a 
low,  even  voice  and  with  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips.  "  Chil 
dren  fall  out  of  windows  sometimes." 

"  But  don't  always  get  killed,"  answered  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford,  coldly. 

"Or,  it  might  drop  from  somebody's  arms  into  the 
river — off"  the  deck  of  a  ferryboat,  I  mean,"  added  Mrs. 
Hoyt. 

"  That's  better.  But  I  don't  care  how  it's  done,  so  it'a 
done." 

"  Accidents  are  safer,"  said  Mrs.  Hoyt. 

"  I  guess  you're  right  about  that.  Let  it  be  an  acci 
dent,  then." 

It  was  half  an  hour  from  the  time  Mrs.  Dinneford  en 
tered  this  house  before  she  came  away.  As  she  passed 
from  the  door,  closely  veiled,  a  gentleman  whom  she  knew 
very  well  was  going  by  on  the  opposite  side  ( f  the  street 
From  something  in  his  manner  she  felt  sure  that  he  had 
recognized  her,  and  that  the  recognition  had  caused  him 
no  little  surprise.  Looking  back  two  or  three  times  as 
she  hurried  homeward,  she  saw,  to  her  consternation,  that 

P 


226  CAST  ADRIFT. 

he  was  following  her,  evidently  with  the  purpose  of  inak 
ing  sure  of  her  identity. 

To  throw  this  man  off  of  her  track  was  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ford's  next  concern.  This  she  did  by  taking  a  street-car 
that  was  going  in  a  direction  opposite  to  the  part  of  the 
town  in  which  she  lived,  and  riding  for  a  distance  of  over 
a  mile.  An  hour  afterward  she  came  back  to  her  OWD 
neighborhood,  but  not  without  a  feeling  of  uneasiness. 
Just  as  she  was  passing  up  to  the  door  of  her  residence  a 
gentleman  came  hurriedly  around  the  nearest  corner. 
She  recognized  him  at  a  glance.  It  seemed  as  if  the  ser 
vant  would  never  answer  her  ring.  On  he  came,  until 
the  sound  of  his  steps  was  in  her  ears.  He  was  scarcely 
ten  paces  distant  when  the  door  opened  and  she  passed  in. 
When  she  gained  her  room,  she  sat  down  faint  and 
trembling.  Here  was  a  new  element  in  the  danger  and 
disgrace  that  were  dogging  her  steps  so  closely. 

As  we  have  seen,  Edith  did  not  make  her  appearance 
at  the  mission  sewing-school  on  the  following  Thursday, 
nor  did  she  go  there  for  many  weeks  afterward.  The 
wild  hope  that  had  taken  her  to  Briar  street,  the  nervous 
stram  and  agitation  attendant  on  that  visit,  and  the  re- 
acti  jn  occasioned  by  her  father's  failure  to  get  possession 
of  the  baby,  were  too  much  for  her  strength,  and  an  utter 
prostration  of  mind  and  body  was  the  consequence.  There 
was  no  fever  nor  sign  of  any  active  disease — only  weak 
ness,  Nature's  enforced  quietude,  that  life  and  reason 
might  be  saved. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE  police  were  at  fault.     They  found  Pinky 
but  were  not  able  to  find  the  baby.     Careful  as  they 
were  in  their  surveillance,  she  managed  to  keep  them  on 
the  wrong  track  and  to  baffle  every  effort  to  discover 
what  had  been  done  with  the  child. 

In  this  uncertainty  months  went  by.  Edith  came  up 
slowly  from  her  prostrate  condition,  paler,  sadder  and 
quieter,  living  in  a  kind  of  waking  dream.  Her  father 
tried  to  hold  her  back  from  her  mission  work  among  the 
poor,  but  she  said,  "  I  must  go,  father ;  I  will  die  if  I  do 
not." 

And  so  her  life  lost  itself  in  charities.  Now  and  then 
her  mother  made  an  effort  to  draw  her  into  society.  She 
had  not  yet  given  up  her  ambition,  nor  her  hope  of  one 
day  seeing  her  daughter  take  social  rank  among  the  high 
est,  or  what  she  esteemed  the  highest.  But  her  powei 
over  Edith  was  entirely  gone.  She  might  as  well  have 
set  herself  to  turn  the  wind  from  its  course  as  to  influence 
her  in  anything.  It  was  all  in  vain.  Edith  had  dropped 
out  of  society,  and  did  not  mean  to  go  back.  She  had  no 
heart  for  anything  outside  of  her  home,  except  the  Chris 
tian  work  to  which  she  had  laid  her  hands. 

The  restless,  watchful,  suspicious  manner  exhibited  for 
a  long  time  by  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  particularly  noticed 

22T 


228  CAST  ADRIFT. 

by  Edith,  gradually  wore  off.  She  grew  externally  mort 
like  her  old  self,  but  with  something  new  in  the  expres. 
sion  of  her  face  when  in  repose,  that  gave  a  chill  to  the 
heart  of  Edith  whenever  she  saw  its  mysterious  record, 
that  seemed  in  her  eyes  only  an  imperfect  effort  to  conceal 
some  guilty  secret. 

Thus  the  mother  and  daughter,  though  in  daily  per 
sonal  contact,  stood  far  apart — were  internally  as  distant 
from  each  other  as  the  antipodes. 

As  for  Mr.  Dinneford,  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  on 
his  first  visit  to  Briar  street  had  aroused  him  to  a  new 
and  deeper  sense  of  his  duty  as  a  citizen.  Against  all 
the  reluctance  and  protests  of  his  natural  feeling's,  he  had 
compelled  himself  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  appalling 
degradation  and  crime  that  festered  and  rioted  in  that 
almost  Heaven-deserted  region.  He  had  heard  and  read 
much  about  its  evil  condition ;  but  when,  under  the  pro- 
tection  of  a  policeman,  he  went  from  house  to  house,  from 
den  to  den,  through  cellar  and  garret  and  hovel,  comfort 
less  and  filthy  as  dog-kennels  and  pig-styes,  and  saw  the 
sick  and  suffering,  the  utterly  vile  and  debauched,  starv 
ing  babes  and  children  with  faces  marred  by  crime,  and 
the  legion  of  harpies  who  were  among  them  as  birds  of 
prey,  he  went  back  to  his  home  sick  at  heart,  and  with  a 
feeling  of  helplessness  and  hopelessness  out  of  which  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  rise. 

We  cannot  stain  our  pages  with  a  description  of  what 
ne  saw.  It  is  so  vile  and  terrible,  alas,  so  horrible,  that 
few  would  credit  it.  The  few  imperfect  glimpses  of 
life  in  that  region  which  we  have  already  given  are  sad 


CAST  ADRIFT.  229 

enough  and  painful  enough,  but  they  only  hir  t  at  the;  real 
truth. 

"  What  can  be  done  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford  of  the 
missionary,  at  their  next  meeting,  in  a  voice  that  revealed 
his  utter  despair  of  a  remedy.  "  To  me  it  seems  as  if 
nothing  but  fire  could  purify  this  region." 

"  The  causes  that  have  produced  this  would  soon  create 
another  as  bad,"  was  answered. 

"  What  are  the  causes  ?" 

"  The  primary  cause,"  said  Mr.  Paulding,  "  is  the  etfort 
of  hell  to  establish  itself  on  the  earth  for  the  destruction 
of  human  souls ;  the  secondary  cause  lies  in  the  indiffer 
ence  ani  supineness  of  the  people.  *  While  the  husband 
men  slept  the  enemy  sowed  tares.'  Thus  it  was  of  old, 
and  thus  it  is  to-day.  The  people  are  sleeping  or  indif 
ferent,  the  churches  are  sleeping  or  indifferent,  while  the 
enemy  goes  on  sowing  tares  for  the  harvest  of  death." 

"  Well  may  you  say  the  harvest  of  death,"  returned 
Mr.  Dinneford,  gloomily. 

"And  hell,"  added  the  missionary,  with  a  stern  em 
phasis.  "  Yes,  sir,  it  is  the  harvest  of  death  and  hell 
that  is  gailt*.-ed  here,  and  such  a  full  harvest !  There  is 
little  joy  in  heaven  over  the  sheaves  that  are  garnered  in 
this  accursed  region.  What  hope  is  there  in  fire,  or  any 
other  purifying  process,  if  the  enemy  be  permitted  to  go 
on  sowing  his  evil  seed  at  will  ?" 

"  How  will  you  prevent  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"Not  by  standing  afar  off  and  leaving  the  enemy  in 
undisputed  possession — not  by  sleeping  while  he  sows  and 
reaps  and  binds  into  bundles  for  the  fires,  his  harvests 
20 


230  CAST  ADRIFT. 

of  human  souls !  We  must  be  as  alert  and  wise  ana 
ready  of  hand  as  he ;  and  God  being  our  helper,  we  can 
drive  him  from  the  field." 

"  You  have  thought  over  this  sad  problem  a  great  deal," 
said  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  You  have  stood  face  to  face  with 
the  enemy  for  years,  and  know  his  strength  and  his  re 
sources.  Have  you  any  well-grounded  hope  of  ever  dis 
lodging  him  from  this  stronghold?" 

"  I  have  just  said  it,  Mr.  Dinneford.  But  until  the 
churches  and  the  people  come  up  to  the  help  of  the  Lord 
against  the  mighty,  he  cannot  be  dislodged.  I  am  stand 
ing  here,  sustained  in  my  work  by  a  small  band  of  earnest 
Christian  men  and  women,  like  an  almost  barren  rock  in 
the  midst  of  a  down-rushing  river  on  whose  turbulent  sur 
face  thousands  are  being  swept  to  destruction.  The  few 
we  are  able  to  rescue  are  as  a  drop  in  the  bucket  to  the 
number  who  are  lost.  In  weakness  and  sorrow,  almost 
in  despair  sometimes,  we  stand  on  our  rock,  with  the  cry 
of  lost  souls  mingling  with  the  cry  of  fiends  in  our  ears, 
and  wonder  at  the  churches  and  the  people,  that  they 
stand  aloof — nay,  worse,  turn  from  us  coldly  often — when 
we  press  the  claims  of  this  worse  than  heathen  people 
who  are  perishing  at  their  very  doors. 

"  Sir,"  continued  the  missionary,  warming  on  his  theme, 
"  I  was  in  a  church  last  Sunday  that  cost  its  congregation 
over  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  It  was  an  anni 
versary  occasion,  and  the  collections  for  the  day  were  tf 
be  given  to  some  foreign  mission.  How  eloquently  the 
preacher  pleaded  for  the  heathen !  What  vivid  pictures 
nf  their  moral  and  spiritual  destitution  he  drew  I  How 


CAST  ADRIFT.  231 

full  of  pathos  he  was,  even  to  tears !  And  the  congrega 
tion  responded  in  a  contribution  of  over  three  thousand 
dollars,  to  be  sent  somewhere,  and  to  be  disbursed  by  some- 
bod)-  of  whom  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  the  contributors 
knew  anything  or  took  the  trouble  to  inform  themselves. 
I  felt  sick  and  oppressed  at  such  a  waste  of  money  and 
Christian  sympathy,  when  heathen  more  destitute  and  de 
graded  than  could  be  found  in  any  foreign  land  were  dying 
at  home  in  thousands  every  year,  unthought  of  and  uncared 
for.  I  gave  no  amcns  to  his  prayers — I  could  not.  They 
would  have  stuck  in  my  throat.  I  said  to  myself,  in  bit 
terness  and  anger,  l  How  dare  a  watchman  on  the  walls 
of  Zion  point  to  an  enemy  afar  off,  of  whose  move 
ments  and  power  and  organization  he  knows  but  little, 
while  the  very  gates  of  the  city  are  being  stormed  and 
its  walls  broken  down  ?'  But  you  must  excuse  me, 
Mr.  Dinneford.  I  lose  my  calmness  sometimes  when 
these  things  crowd  my  thoughts  too  strongly.  I  am 
human,  like  the  rest,  and  weak,  and  cannot  stand  in  the 
midst  of  this  terrible  wickedness  and  suffering  year  after 
year  without  being  stirred  by  it  to  the  very  inmost  of  my 
being.  In  my  intense  absorption  I  can  see  nothing  else 
sometimes." 

He  paused  for  a  little  while,  and  then  said,  in  a  quiet, 
business  way, 

"  In  seeking  a  remedy  for  the  condition  of  society  found 
here,  we  must  let  common  sense  and  a  knowledge  of 
human  nature  go  hand  in  hand  with  Christian  charity. 
To  ignore  any  of  these  is  to  make  failure  certain.  If  the 
whisky-  and  policy-shops  were  all  closed,  the  task  would 


232  CAST  ADRIFT. 

De  easy.  In  a  single  month  the  transformation  would  be 
marvelous.  But  we  cannot  hope  for  this,  at  least  not  for 
a  long  time  to  come — not  until  politics  and  whisky  are 
divorced,  and  not  until  associations  of  bad  men  cease  to 
be  strong  enough  in  our -courts  to  set  law  and  justice  at 
defiance.  Our  work,  then,  must  be  in  the  face  of  these 
baleful  influences." 

"  Is  the  evil  of  lottery-policies  so  great  that  you  class 
it  with  the  curse  of  rum  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  It  is  more  concealed,  but  as  all-pervading  and  almost 
as  disastrous  in  its  effects.  The  policy-shops  draw  from  the 
people,  especially  the  poor  and  ignorant,  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  of  dollars  every  year.  There  is  no  more  chance  of 
thrift  for  one  who  indulges  in  this  sort  of  gambling  than 
there  is  for  one  who  indulges  in  drink.  The  vice  in  either 
case  drags  its  subject  down  to  want,  and  in  most  cases  to 
crime.  I  could  point  you  to  women  virtuous  a  year  ago,  but 
who  now  live  abandoned  lives ;  and  they  would  tell  you, 
if  you  would  question  them,  that  their  way  downward  was 
through  the  policy-shops.  To  get  the  means  of  securing 
a  hoped-for  prize — of  getting  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
dollars  for  every  single  one  risked,  and  so  rising  above 
want  or  meeting  some  desperate  exigency — virtue  was 
sacrificed  in  an  evil  moment." 

"The  whisky-shops  brutalize,  benumb  and  debase  or 
madden  with  cruel  and  murderous  passions;  the  policy- 
shops,  more  seductive  and  fascinating  in  their  allurements, 
lead  on  to  as  deep  a  gulf  of  moral  ruin  and  hopeless  de 
pravity.  I  have  seen  the  poor  garments  of  a  dying  child 
sold  at  a  pawn-shop  for  a  mere  trifle  by  its  infatuated 


CAST  ADRIFT.  233 

mother,  and  the  money  thrown  away  in  this  kind  *  gamb 
ling.  Women  sell  or  pawn  their  clothing,  often  sending 
their  little  children  to  dispose  of  these  articles,  while  they 
remain  half  clad  at  home  to  await  the  daily  drawings  and 
receive  the  prize  they  fondly  hope  to  obtain,  but  which 
rarely,  if  ever,  comes. 

"  Children  learn  early  to  indulge  this  vice,  and  l:e  and 
steal  in  order  to  obtain  money  to  gratify  it.  You  would 
be  amazed  to  see  the  scores  of  little  boys  and  girls,  white 
and  black,  who  daily  visit  the  policy-shops  in  this  neigh 
borhood  to  put  down  the  pennies  they  have  begged  or 
received  for  stolen  articles  on  some  favorite  numbers — 
quick-witted,  sharp,  eager  little  wretches,  who  talk  the 
lottery  slang  as  glibly  as  older  customers.  What  hope 
is  there  in  the  future  for  these  children  ?  Will  their  edu 
cation  in  the  shop  of  a  policy-dealer  fit  them  to  become 
honest,  industrious  citizens?" 

All  this  was  so  new  and  dreadful  to  Mr.  Dinneford 
that  he  was  stunned  and  disheartened ;  and  when,  after 
an  interview  with  the  missionary  that  lasted  over  an 
hour,  he  went  away,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  utter  dis 
couragemem.  He  saw  little  hope  of  making  head  against 
the  flood  of  evil  that  wa?  devastating  this  accursed  region. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MRS.  HOYT,  alias  Bray,  found  Pinky  Swett,  but  she 
die!  not  find  the  poor  cast-off  baby.  Pinky  had 
resolved  to  make  it  her  own  capital  in  trade.  She  par 
leyed  and  trifled  with  Mrs.  Hoyt  week  after  week,  and 
each  did  her  best  to  get  down  to  the  other's  secret,  but 
in  vain.  Mutually  baffled,  they  parted  at  last  in  bitter 
anger. 

One  day,  about  two  months  after  the  interview  between 
Mrs.  Dinneford  and  Mrs.  Hoyt  described  in  another  chap 
ter,  the  former  received  in  an  envelope  a  paragraph  cut 
from  a  newspaper.  It  read  as  follows : 

"  A  CHILD  DROWNED. — A  sad  accident  occurred  yes 
terday  on  board  the  steamer  Fawn  as  she  was  going  down 
the  river.  A  woman  was  standing  with  a  child  in  her 
arms  near  the  railing  on  the  lower  deck  forward.  Sud 
denly  the  child  gave  a  spring,  and  was  out  of  her  arms 
in  a  moment.  She  caught  after  it  frantically,  but  in 
vain.  Every  effort  was  made  to  recover  the  child,  but 
all  proved  fruitless.  It  did  not  rise  to  the  surface  of  the 
water." 

Mrs.  Dinneford  read  the  paragraph  twice,  and  then 
tore  it  into  little  bits.  Her  mouth  set  itself  sternly.  A 
long  sigh  of  relief  came  up  from  her  chest.  After  a  while 

234 


CAST  ADRIFT. 

the  hard  lines  began  slowly  to  disappear,  giving  place  to 
\  look  of  satisfaction  and  comfort. 

"  Out  of  my  way  at  last,"  she  said,  rising  and  begin 
ning  to  move  about  the  room.  But  the  expression  of 
relief  and  confidence  which  had  come  into  her  face  soon 
died  out.  The  evil  counselors  that  lead  the  soul  into  sin 
become  its  tormentors  after  the  sin  is  committed,  and  tor 
ture  it  with  fears.  So  tortured  they  this  guilty  and 
wretched  woman  at  every  opportunity.  They  led  her  on 
Btep  by  step  to  do  evil,  and  then  crowded  her  mind  with 
mggestions  of  perils  and  consequences  the  bare  thought 
»f  which  filled  her  with  terror. 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  this  that  Mrs.  Dinneford, 
*vhile  looking  over  a  morning  paper,  saw  in  the  court 
record  the  name  of  Pinky  Swett.  This  girl  had  been 
tried  for  robbing  a  man  of  his  pocket-book,  containing 
five  hundred  dollars,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  prison 
for  a  term  of  two  years. 

"  Good  again !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dinneford,  with  satis 
faction.  "  The  wheel  turns." 

After  that  she  gradually  rose  above  the  doubts  and 
dread  of  exposure  that  haunted  her  continually,  and  set 
herself  to  work  to  draw  her  daughter  back  again  into 
society.  But  she  found  her  influence  over  Edith  entirely 
gone.  Indeed,  Edith  stood  so  far  away  from  her  that  she 
Beemed  more  like  a  stranger  than  a  child. 

Two  or  three  times  had  Pinky  Swett  gone  to  the  mis 
sion  sewing-school  in  order  to  get  a  sight  of  Edith.  Her 
purpose  was  to  follow  her  home,  and  so  find  out  her  name 
and  where  she  lived.  With  this  knowledge  in  her  pos- 


236  CAST  AVRIFT. 

session,  she  meant  to  visit  Mrs.  Bray,  and  by  a  sudden 
or  casual  mention  by  name  of  Edith  as  the  child's 
mother  throw  her  off  her  guard,  and  lead  her  to  betray 
the  fact  if  it  were  really  so.  But  Edith  was  sick  at  home, 
and  did  not  go  to  the  school.  After  a  few  weeks  the  lit 
tle  girl  who  was  to  identify  Edith  as  the  person  who  had 
ehown  so  much  interest  in  the  baby  was  taken  away  from 
Grubb's  court  by  her  mother,  and  nobody  could  tell  where 
to  find  her.  So  Pinky  had  to  abandon  her  efforts  in  this 
direction,  and  Edith,  when  she  was  strong  enough  to  go 
back  to  the  sewing-school,  missed  the  child,  from  whom 
Bhe  was  hoping  to  hear  something  that  might  give  a  clue 
to  where  the  poor  waif  had  been  taken. 

Up  to  the  time  of  her  arrest  and  imprisonment,  Pinky 
had  faithfully  paid  the  child's  board,  and  looked  in  now 
and  then  upon  the  woman  who  had  it  in  charge,  to  see 
that  it  was  properly  cared  for.  How  marvelously  the 
baby  had  improved  in  these  two  or  three  months !  The 
shrunken  limbs  were  rounded  into  beautiful  symmetry, 
and  the  pinched  face  looked  full  and  rosy.  The  large 
brown  eyes,  in  which  you  once  saw  only  fear  or  a  mys 
tery  of  suffering,  were  full  of  a  happy  light,  and  the 
voice  rang  out  often  in  merry  child-laughter.  The  baby 
had  learned  to  walk,  and  was  daily  growing  more  and 
more  lovable. 

But  after  Pinky's  imprisonment  there  was  a  change 
The  woman — Mrs.  Burke  by  name — in  whose  care  the 
child  had  been  placed  could  not  afford  to  keep  him  for 
nothing.  The  two  dollars  a  week  received  for  his  board 
added  just  enough  to  her  income  to  enable  her  to  reinaJD 


CAST  ADRIFT.  237 

at  home.  But  failing  to  receive  this,  she  must  go  out  for 
day's  work  in  families  at  least  twice  in  every  week. 

What,  then,  was  to  be  done  with  little  Andy,  as  the 
baby  was  called  ?  At  first  Mrs.  Burke  thought  of  get- 
ling  him  into  one  of  the  homes  for  friendless  children, 
but  the  pleasant  child  had  crept  into  her  affections,  and 
she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  giving  him  up.  His 
presence  stirred  in  her  heart  old  and  tender  things  long 
buried  out  of  sight,  and  set  the  past,  with  its  better  and 
purer  memories,  side  by  side  with  the  present.  She  had 
been  many  times  a  mother,  but  her  children  were  all 
dead  but  one,  and  she —  Alas !  the  thought  of  her,  when 
ever  it  came,  made  her  heart  heavy  and  sad. 

"  I  will  keep  him  a  while  and  see  how  it  comes  out," 
she  said,  on  getting  the  promise  of  a  neighbor  to  let 
Andy  play  with  her  children  and  keep  an  eye  on  him 
whenever  she  was  out.  He  had  grown  strong,  and  could 
toddle  abv  ut  and  take  care  of  himself  wonderfully  well 
for  a  child  of  his  age. 

And  now  began  a  new  life  for  the  baby — a  life  in  which 
he  must  look  out  for  himself  and  hold  his  own  in  a  hand- 
to-hand  struggle.  He  had  no  rights  that  the  herd  of  chil 
dren  among  whom  he  was  thrown  felt  bound  to  respect ; 
and  if  he  were  not  able  to  maintain  his  rights,  he  must 
go  down  helplessly,  and  he  did  go  down  daily,  often 
hourly.  But  he  had  will  and  vital  force,  and  these 
brought  him  always  to  his  feet  again,  and  with  strength 
increased  rather  than  lost.  On  the  days  that  Mrs.  Burke 
went  out  he  lived  for  most  of  the  time  in  the  little  street, 
playing  with  the  children  that  swarmed  its  pavements, 


238  CAST  ADRIFT. 

often  dragged  from  before  wheels  or  horses'  hoofs  by  *» 
friendly  hand,  or  lifted  from  some  gutter  in  which  he  had 
fallen,  dripping  with  mud. 

When  Mrs.  Burke  came  home  on  the  evening  of  her 
first  day  out,  the  baby  was  a  sight  to  see.  His  clothes 
were  stiff  with  dirt,  his  shoes  and  stockings  wet,  and  his 
face  more  like  that  of  a  chimney-sweep  than  anything 
else.  But  this  was  not  all ;  there  was  a  great  lump  as 
large  as  a  pigeon's  egg  on  the  back  of  his  head,  a  black- 
and-blue  spot  on  his  forehead  and  a  bad  cut  on  his 
upper  lip.  His  joy  at  seeing  her  and  the  tearful  cry  he 
gave  as  he  threw  his  arms  about  her  neck  quite  over 
came  Mrs.  Burke,  and  caused  her  eyes  to  grow  dim. 
She  was  angry  at  the  plight  in  which  she  found  him,  and 
said  some  hard  things  to  the  woman  who  had  promised 
to  look  after  the  child,  at  which  the  latter  grew  angry  in 
turn,  and  told  her  to  stay  at  home  and  take  care  of  the 
brat  herself,  or  put  him  in  one  of  the  homes. 

The  fresh  care  and  anxiety  felt  by  Mrs.  Burke  drew 
little  Andy  nearer  and  made  her  reject  more  decidedl) 
the  thought  of  giving  him  up.  She  remained  at  home 
on  the  day  following,  but  did  not  find  it  so  easy  as  before  to 
keep  the  baby  quiet.  He  had  got  a  taste  of  the  free,  wild 
life  of  the  street,  of  its  companionship  and  excitement, 
and  fretted  to  go  out.  Toward  evening  she  put  by  her 
work  and  went  on  the  pavement  with  Andy.  It  was 
swarming  with  children.  At  the  sight  of  them  he  began 
to  scream  with  pleasure.  Pulling  his  hand  free  from  that 
of  Mrs.  Burke,  he  ran  in  among  them,  and  :'n  a  moment 
»ifter  was  tumbled  over  on  the  pavement.  His 


CAST  ALRIFT.  239 

got  a  hard  knock,  but  he  didn't  seem  to  mind  it,  for  he 
scrambled  to  his  feet  and  commenced  tossing  his  hands 
about,  laughing  and  crying  out  as  wildly  as  the  rest 
In  a  little  while,  over  he  was  knocked  again,  and  as  he 
fell  one  of  the  children  stepped  on  his  hand  and  hurt 
him  so  that  he  screamed  with  pain.  Mrs.  Burke  caught 
him  in  her  arms ;  but  when  he  found  that  she  was  going 
to  take  him  in  the  house,  he  stopped  crying  and  strug 
gled  to  get  down.  He  was  willing  to  take  the  knocks 
and  falls.  The  pleasure  of  this  free  life  among  children 
was  more  to  him  than  any  of  the  suffering  it  brought. 

On  the  next  day  Mrs.  Burke  had  to  go  out  again.  An 
other  neighbor  promised  to  look  after  Andy.  When  she 
returned  at  night,  she  found  things  worse,  if  anything, 
than  before.  The  child  was  dirtier,  if  that  were  possible, 
and  there  were  two  great  lumps  on  his  head,  instead  of 
one.  He  had  been  knocked  down  by  a  horse  in  the  street, 
escaping  death  by  one  of  the  narrowest  of  chances,  and 
had  been  discovered  and  removed  from  a  ladder  up  which 
he  had  climbed  a  distance  of  twenty  feet. 

What  help  was  there  ?  None  that  Mrs.  Burke  knew, 
except  to  give  up  the  child,  and  she  was  not  unselfish 
enough  for  this.  The  thought  of  sending  him  away  waa 
always  attended  with  pain.  It  would  take  the  light  out 
of  her  poor  lonely  life,  into  which  he  had  brought  a  few 
stray  sunbeams. 

She  could  not,  she  would  not,  give  him  up.  He  mast 
take  his  chances.  Ah,  but  they  were  hard  chances! 
Children  mature  fast  under  the  stimulus  of  street-train 
ing.  Andy  had  a  large  brain  and  an  active,  nervous  01* 


240  CAST  ADRIFT. 

ganization.  Life  in  the  open  air  gave  vigor  and  hard 
ness  to  his  body.  As  the  months  went  by  he  learned 
self-reliance,  caution,  self-protection,  and  took  a  good 
many  lessons  in  the  art  of  aggression.  A  rapidly-grow 
ing  child  needs  a  large  amount  of  nutritious  food  to  sup 
ply  waste  and  furnish  material  for  the  daily-increasing 
bodily  structure.  Andy  did  not  get  this.  At  two  years 
of  age  he  had  lost  all  the  roundness  of  babyhood.  His 
limbs  were  slender,  his  body  thin  and  his  face  colorless 
and  hungry-looking. 

About  this  time — that  is,  when  Andy  was  two  years 
old — Mrs.  Burke  took  sick  and  died.  She  had  been  fail 
ing:  for  several  months,  and  unable  to  earn  sufficient  even 
to  pay  her  rent.  But  for  the  help  of  neighbors  and  an 
occasional  supply  of  food  or  fuel  from  some  public 
charity,  she  would  have  starved.  At  her  death  Andy 
had  no  home  and  no  one  to  care  for  him.  One  pitying 
neighbor  after  another  would  take  him  in  at  night,  or  let 
him  share  a  meal  with  her  children,  but  beyond  this  he 
was  utterly  cast  out  and  friendless.  It  was  summer-time 
when  Mrs.  Burke  died,  and  the  poor  waif  was  spared  for 
a  time  the  suffering  of  cold. 

Now  and  then  a  mother's  heart  would  be  touched,  and 
after  a  half-reluctantly  given  supper  and  a  place  where  he 
might  sleep  for  the  night  would  mend  and  wash  his  soiled 
clothes  and  dry  them  by  the  fire,  ready  for  morning. 
The  pleased  look  that  she  saw  in  his  large,  sad  eyes — for 
they  had  grown  wistful  and  sad  since  the  only  one  he  had 
known  as  a  mother  died — was  always  her  reward,  and 
something  not  to  be  put  out  of  her  memory.  Many  of 


OAST  ADRIFT.  241 

the  children  took  kindly  to  Andy,  and  often  supplied  him 
with  food. 

"  Andy  is  so  hungry,  mamma ;  can't  I  take  him  some 
thing  to  eat?"  rarely  failed  to  bring  the  needed  bread  for 
the  poor  little  cast-adrift.  And  if  he  was  discovered  now 
and  then  sound  asleep  in  bed  with  some  pitying  child 
who  had  taken  him  in  stealthily  after  dark,  few  were 
hard-hearted  enough  to  push  him  into  the  street,  or  make 
him  go  down  and  sleep  on  the  kitchen  floor.  Yet  this 
was  not  uufrequently  done.  Poverty  is  sometimes  very 
cruel,  yet  often  tender  and  compassionate. 

One  day,  a  few  months  after  Mrs.  Burke's  death,  Andy, 
who  was  beginning  to  drift  farther  and  farther  away 
from  the  little  street,  yet  always  managing  to  get  back 
into  it  as  darkness  came  on,  that  he  might  lay  his  tired 
body  in  some  friendly  place,  got  lost  in  strange  localities. 
He  had  wandered  about  for  many  hours,  sitting  now  on 
some  step  or  cellar-door  or  horse-block,  watching  the 
children  at  play  and  sometimes  joining  in  their  sports, 
when  they  would  let  him,  with  the  spontaneous  abandon 
of  a  puppy  or  a  kitten,  and  now  enjoying  some  street- 
show  or  attractive  shop-window.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  air  of  a  lost  child  about  him.  For  all  that  his  man 
ner  betrayed,  his  home  might  have  been  in  the  nearest 
court  or  alley.  So  he  wandered  along  from  street  to 
street  without  attracting  the  special  notice  of  any — a 
bare-headed,  bare-footed,  dirty,  half-clad  atom  of  human 
ity  not  three  years  old. 

Hungry,  tired  and  cold,  for  the  summer  was  gone  and 
mid-autumn  had  brought  its  chilly  nights,  Andy  found 
21  Q 


242  CAST  ADRIFT 

himself,  as  darkness  fell,  in  a  vile,  narrow  court,  among 
some  children  as  forlorn  and  dirty  as  himself.  It  was 
Grubb's  court — his  old  home — though  in  his  memory  there 
was  of  course  no  record  of  the  place. 

Too  tired  and  hungry  for  play,  Andy  was  sitting  on  the 
step  of  a  wretched  hovel,  when  the  door  opened  and  a 
woman  called  sharply  the  names  of  her  two  children. 
They  answered  a  little  way  off.  "  Come  in  this  minute, 
and  get  your  suppers,"  she  called  again,  and  turning 
back  without  noticing  Andy,  left  the  door  open  for  her 
children.  The  poor  cast-adrift  looked  in  and  saw  light 
and  food  and  comfort — a  home  that  made  him  heartsick 
with  longing,  mean  and  disordered  and  miserable  as  it 
would  have  appeared  to  your  eyes  and  mine,  reader.  The 
two  children,  coming  at  their  mother's  call,  found  him 
standing  just  on  the  threshold  gazing  in  wistfully;  and 
as  they  entered,  he,  drawn  by  their  attraction,  went  in 
also.  Then,  turning  toward  her  children,  the  mother  saw 
Andy. 

"  Out  of  this !"  she  cried,  in  quick  anger,  raising  her 
hand  and  moving  hastily  toward  the  child.  "  Off  home 
with  you !" 

Andy  might  well  be  frightened  at  the  terrible  face  and 
threatening  words  of  this  woman,  and  he  was  frightened. 
But  he  did  not  turn  and  fly,  as  she  meant  that  he  should. 
He  had  learned,  young  as  he  was,  that  if  he  were  driven 
off  by  every  rebuff,  he  would  starve.  It  was  only 
through  importunity  and  perseverance  that  he  lived. 
Bo  he  held  his  ground,  his  large,  clear  eyes  fixed  steadily 
*n  the  woman's  face  as  she  advanced  v  pon  him.  Some- 


THE  STRAY  KITTEN. 


See  page  243. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  243 

thing  iii  those  eyes  and  in  the  firmly-set  mouth  checked 
the  woman's  purpose  if  she  had  meant  violence,  but  she 
thrust  him  out  into  the  damp  street,  nevertheless,  though 
uot  roughly,  and  shut  the  door  against  him. 

Andy  did  not  cry ;  poor  little  baby  that  he  was,  he 
had  long  since  learned  that  for  him  crying  did  no  good. 
It  brought  him  nothing.  Just  across  the  street  a  door 
stood  open.  As  a  stray  kitten  creeps  in  through  an  open 
door,  so  crept  he  through  this  one,  hoping  for  shelter  and 
a  place  of  rest. 

"  Who're  you  ?"  growled  the  rough  but  not  unkindly 
voice  of  a  man,  coming  from  ths  darkness.  At  the  same 
moment  a  light  gleamed  out  from  a  match,  and  then  the 
steadier  flame  of  a  candle  lit  up  the  small  room,  not  more 
than  eight  or  nine  feet  square,  and  containing  little  that 
could  be  called  furniture.  The  floor  was  bare.  In  one 
corner  were  some  old  bits  of  carpet  and  a  blanket.  A 
small  table,  a  couple  of  chairs  with  the  backs  broken  off 
and  a  few  pans  and  dishes  made  up  the  inventory  of 
household  goods. 

As  the  light  made  all  things  clear  in  this  poor  room, 
Andy  saw  the  bloodshot  eyes  and  grizzly  face  of  a  man 
not  far  past  middle  life. 

"  Who  are  you,  little  one  ?"  he  growled  again  as  the 
light  gave  him  a  view  of  Andy's  face.  This  growl  had 
in  it  a  tone  of  kindness  and  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Andy, 
who  came  forward,  saying, 

"  I'm  Andy." 

"  Indeed !  You're  \ndy,  are  you  ?"  and  he  reached  out 
one  of  his  bands. 


244  CAST  AD&IFT. 

"  Yes;  I'm  Andy,"  returned  the  child,  fixing  his  eye* 
with  a  look  so  deep  and  searching  on  the  man's  face  that 
they  held  him  as  by  a  kind  of  fascination. 

"  Well,  Andy,  where  did  you  come  from  ?"  asked  the 
man. 

"  Don't  know,"  was  answered. 

"  Don't  know !" 

Andy  shook  his  head. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  Don't  live  nowhere,"  returned  the  child ;  "  and  To* 
hungry." 

"Hungry?"  The  man  let  the  hand  he  was  still  hold 
ing  drop,  and  getting  up  quickly,  took  some  bread  from 
a  closet  and  set  it  on  the  old  table. 

Andy  did  not  wait  for  an  invitation,  but  seized  upon 
the  bread  and  commenced  eating  almost  ravenously.  As 
he  did  so  the  man  fumbled  in  his  pockets.  There  were 
a  few  pennies  there.  He  felt  them  over,  counting  them 
with  his  fingers,  and  evidently  in  some  debate  with  him 
self.  At  last,  as  he  closed  the  debate,  he  said,  with  a  kind 
of  compelled  utterance, 

"  I  say,  young  one,  wouldn't  you  like  some  milk  with 
your  bread  ?" 

"  Milk !  oh  my !  oh  goody !  yes,"  answered  the  child,  a 
gleam  of  pleasure  coming  into  his  face. 

"  Then  you  shall  have  some ;"  and  catching  up  a  broken 
mug,  the  man  went  out.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  returned 
with  a  pint  of  milk,  into  which  he  broke  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  then  sat  watching  Andy  as  he  filled  himself  with  the 
most  delicious  food  he  had  tasted  for  weeks,  his  marred 


CAST  ADRIFT.  245 

face   beaming  with   a  higher  satisfaction   than  he  had 
known  for  a  long  time. 

"  Is  it  good  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"  I  bet  you  I"  was  the  cheery  answer. 

"  Well,  you're  a  little  brick,"  laughed  the  man  as  he 
stroked  Andy's  head.  "  And  you  don't  live  anywhere?" 

"No." 

"  Is  your  mother  dead  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  your  father  ?" 

"  Hain't  got  no  father." 

"  Would  you  like  to  live  here  ? 

Andy  looked  toward  the  empty  bowl  from  which  he 
bad  made  such  a  satisfying  meal,  and  said, 

"Yes." 

"  It  will  hold  us  both.  You're  not  very  big ;"  and  aa 
he  said  this  the  man  drew  his  arm  about  the  boy  in  a 
fond  sort  of  way. 

"  I  guess  you're  tired,"  he  added,  for  Andy,  now  that 
an  arm  was  drawn  around  him,  leaned  against  it  heavily. 

"Yes,  I'm  tired,"  said  the  child. 

"  And  sleepy  too,  poor  little  fellow  !  It  isn't  much  of  a 
bed  I  can  give  you,  but  it's  better  than  a  door-step  or  a 
rubbish  corner." 

Then  he  doubled  the  only  blanket  he  had,  and  made  as 
Boft  a  bed  as  possible.  On  this  he  laid  Andy,  who  was 
fast  asleep  almost  as  soon  as  down. 

"Poor  little  chap!"  said  the  man,  in  a  tender,  half- 
broken  voice,  as  he  stood  over  the  sleeping  child,  candle 
m  hand.    "  Poor  little  chap !" 
21  » 


246  CAST  ADRIFT. 

The  sight  troubled  him.  He  turned  wit!,  a  quick,  di* 
turbed  movement  and  put  the  candle  dowr.  The  light 
streaming  upward  into  his  face  showed  the  countenance 
of  a  man  so  degraded  by  intemperance  tlr.it  everything 
attractive  had  died  out  of  it.  His  clothes  were  scanty, 
worn  almost  to  tatters,  and  soiled  with  the  slime  and  dirt 
of  many  an  ash-heap  or  gutter  where  he  had  slept  off 
his  almost  daily  fits  of  drunkenness.  There  was  an  air 
of  irresolution  about  him,  and  a  strong  play  of  feeling  in 
his  marred,  repulsive  face,  as  he  stood  by  the  table  on 
which  he  had  set  the  candle.  One  hand  ^>as  in  his 
pocket,  fumbling  over  the  few  pennies  yet  remaining 
there. 

As  if  drawn  by  an  attraction  he  could  not  Desist,  his 
eyes  kept  turning  to  the  spot  where  Andy  la)  sleeping. 
Once,  as  they  came  back,  they  rested  on  the  mug  from 
which  the  child  had  taken  his  supper  of  bread  and  milk. 

"  Poor  little  fellow !"  came  from  his  lips,  in  a  tone  vf 
pity. 

Then  he  sat  down  by  the  table  and  leaned  his  head  on 
his  hand.  His  face  was  toward  the  corner  of  the  room 
where  the  child  lay.  He  still  fumbled  the  small  coins  iu 
his  pocket,  but  after  a  while  his  fingers  ceased  to  play 
with  them,  then  his  hand  was  slowly  withdrawn  from  the 
pocket,  a  deep  sigh  accompanying  the  act. 

After  the  lapse  of  several  minutes  he  took  up  the  can 
dle,  and  going  over  to  the  bed,  crouched  down  and  let  the 
light  fall  on  Andy's  face.  The  large  forehead,  soiled  as 
it  was,  looked  white  to  the  man's  eyes,  and  the  brown 
matted  hair,  as  he  drew  it  through  his  fingers,  was  soft 


CAST  ADRIFT.  24? 

and  beautiful.  Memory  had  taken  him  hack  for  years, 
and  he  was  looking  at  the  fair  forehead  and  touching  the 
soft  brown  hair  of  another  baby.  His  eyes  grew  dim. 
He  set  the  candle  upon  the  floor,  and  putting  his  hands 
over  his  face,  sobbed  two  or  three  times. 

When  this  paroxysm  of  feeling  went  off,  he  got  up  with 
a  steadier  air,  and  set  the  light  back  upon  the  table.  The 
conflict  going  on  in  his  mind  was  not  quite  over,  but 
another  look  at  Andy  settled  the  question.  Stooping  with 
a  hurried  movement,  he  blew  out  the  candle,  then  groped 
his  way  over  to  the  bed,  and  lying  down,  took  the  child  in 
his  arms  and  drew  him  close  to  his  breast.  So  the  morn 
ing  found  them  both  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MR.  DINNEFORD  had  become  deeply  interested  in 
the  work  that  was  going  on  in  Briar  street,  and 
made  frequent  visits  to  the  mission  house.  Sometimes  ho 
took  heart  in  the  work,  but  oftener  he  suffered  great  dis 
couragement  of  feeling.  In  one  of  his  many  conversa 
tions  with  Mr.  Paulding  he  said, 

"Looking  as  I  do  from  the  standpoint  gained  since  I 
came  here,  I  am  inclined  to  say  there  is  no  hope.  The 
enemy  is  too  strong  for  us." 

"He  is  very  strong,"  returned  the  missionary,  "but 
God  is  stronger,  and  our  cause  is  his  cause.  We  have 
planted  his  standard  here  in  the  very  midst  of  the  enemy's 
territory,  and  have  not  only  held  our  ground  for  years, 
but  gained  some  victories.  If  we  had  the  people,  the 
churches  and  the  law-officers  on  our  side,  we  could  drive 
him  out  in  a  year.  But  we  have  no  hope  of  this — at  least 
not  for  a  long  time  to  come ;  and  so,  as  wisely  as  we  can, 
as  earnestly  as  we  can,  and  with  the  limited  means  at  our 
control,  we  are  fighting  the  foe  and  helping  the  weak, 
and  gaining  a  little  every  year." 

"  And  you  really  think  there  is  gain  ?" 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  the  missionary,  with  a  ringing 
confidence  in  his  voice.  "It  is  by  comparisons  that  wa 
248 


CAST  ADRIFT.  24& 

are  able  to  get  at  true  results.     Come  witli  me  into  our 
school-room,  next  door." 

They  passed  from  the  office  of  the  mission  into  the 
street. 

"These  buildings,"  said  Mr.  Paulding,  "erected  by 
that  true  Christian  charity  which  hopeth  all  things,  stand 
upon  the  very  site  of  one  of  the  worst  dens  once  to  be 
found  in  this  region.  In  them  we  have  a  chapel  for 
worship,  two  large  and  well  ventilated  school-rooms,  where 
from  two  to  three  hundred  children  that  would  not  be 
admitted  into  any  public  school  are  taught  daily,  a  hos 
pital  and  dispensary  and  bath-rooms.  Let  me  show  you 
the  school.  Then  I  will  give  you  a  measure  of  compari 
son." 

Mr.  Dinnelbrd  went  up  to  the  school-rooms.  He  found 
them  crowded  with  children,  under  the  care  of  female 
teachers,  who  seemed  to  have  but  little  trouble  in  keeping 
them  in  order.  Such  a  congregation  of  boys  and  girls 
Mr.  Dinneford  had  never  seen  before.  It  made  his  heart 
ache  as  he  looked  into  some  of  their  marred  and  pinched 
faces,  most  of  which  bore  signs  of  pain,  suffering,  want 
and  evil.  It  moved  him  to  tears  when  he  heard  them 
ging,  led  by  one  of  the  teachers,  a  tender  hymn  expressive 
of  the  Lord's  love  for  poor  neglected  children. 

"  The  Lord  Jesus  came  to  seek  and  to  save  that  which 
was  lost,"  said  the  missionary  as  they  came  down  from 
the  school-room,  "and  we  are  trying  to  do  the  sain* 
tfoA.  And  that  our  labor  is  not  all  in  vain  will  be  evi 
dent  when  I  show  you  what  this  work  was  in  the  begin 
ning.  You  have  seen  a  little  of  what  it  is  now." 


250  CAST  ADRIFT. 

They  went  back  to  the  office  of  the  missionary. 

"It  is  nearly  twenty  years,"  said  Mr.  Paul  ding,  "siiic* 
the  organization  of  our  mission.  The  question  of  what 
to  do  for  the  children  became  at  once  the  absorbing  one. 
The  only  building  in  which  to  open  a  Sunday-school  that 
could  be  obtained  was  an  old  dilapidated  frame  house 
used  as  a  receptacle  for  bones,  rags,  etc. ;  but  so  forbid 
ding  was  its  aspect,  and  so  noisome  the  stench  arising  from 
the  putrefying  bones  and  rotting  rags,  that  it  was  feared 
for  the  health  of  those  who  might  occupy  it.  However, 
it  was  agreed  to  try  the  effect  of  scraping,  scrubbing, 
white-washing  and  a  liberal  use  of  chloride  of  lime. 
This  was  attended  with  such  good  effects  that,  notwith 
standing  the  place  was  still  offensive  to  the  olfactories,  the 
managers  concluded  to  open  in  it  our  first  Sabbath-school. 

"No  difficulty  was  experienced  in  gathering  in  a  suffi 
cient  number  of  children  to  compose  a  school;  for,  excited 
by  such  a  novel  spectacle  as  a  Sabbath-school  in  that  re 
gion,  they  came  in  crowds.  But  such  a  Sabbath-school 
as  that  first  one  was  beyond  all  doubt  the  rarest  thing  of 
the  kind  that  any  of  those  interested  in  its  formation  had 
ever  witnessed.  The  jostling,  tumbling,  scratching,  pinch 
ing,  pulling  of  hair,  little  ones  crying  and  larger  ones 
punching  each  other's  heads  and  swearing  most  profane 
ly,  altogether  formed  a  scene  of  confusion  and  riot  that 
disheartened  the  teachers  in  the  start,  and  made  them  be 
gin  to  think  they  had  undertaken  a  hopeless  task. 

"As  to  the  appearance  of  these  young  Ishmaelites,  it 
was  plain  that  they  had  rarely  made  the  acquaintance  of 
X)ap  and  water.  Hands,  feet  and  face  exhibited  a  uni« 


CAST  ADRIFT.  251 

form  crust  of  mud  and  filth.  As  it  was  necessary  to  ob 
tain  order,  the  superintendent,  remembering  that  '  music 
hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast,'  decided  to  try 
its  effects  on  the  untamed  group  before  him ;  and  giving 
out  a  line  of  a  hymn  adapted  to  the  tune  of  *  Lily  Dale,' 
he  commenced  to  sing.  The  effect  was  instantaneous.  It 
was  like  oil  on  troubled  waters.  The  delighted  youngsters 
listened  to  the  first  line,  and  then  joined  in  with  such 
hearty  good-will  that  the  old  shanty  rang  again. 

"The  attempt  to  engage  and  lead  them  in  prayer 
was,  however,  a  matter  of  great  difficulty.  They  seemed 
to  regard  the  attitude  of  kneeling  as  very  amusibg,  and 
were  reluctant  to  commit  themselves  so  far  to  the  ridicule 
of  thei"  companions  as  to  be  caught  in  such  a  posture. 
After  reading  to  them  a  portion  of  the  Holy  Scriptures 
and  telling  them  of  Jesus,  they  were  dismissed,  greatly 
pleased  with  their  first  visit  to  a  Sabbath-school. 

"As  for  ourselves,  we  had  also  received  a  lesson.  "We 
found — what  indeed  we  had  expected — that  the  poor  chil 
dren  were  very  ignorant,  but  we  also  found  what  we  did 
not  expect — namely,  such  an  acute  intelligence  and  apti 
tude  to  receive  instruction  as  admonished  us  of  the  dan 
ger  of  leaving  them  to  grow  up  under  evil  influences 
to  become  master-spirits  in  crime  and  pests  to  society. 
Many  of  the  faces  that  we  had  just  seen  were  very  ex 
pressive — indeed,  painfully  so.  Some  of  them  seemed  to 
exhibit  an  unnatural  and  premature  development  of  those 
passions  whose  absence  makes  childhood  so  attractive. 

••'Hunger!  ay,  its  traces  were  also  plainly  written 
there,  L  is  painful  to  see  the  marks  of  hunger  on  the 


252  CAST  ADRIFT. 

human  face,  but  to  see  the  cheeks  of  childhood  blanched 
by  famine,  to  behold  the  attenuated  limbs  and  bright 
wolfish  eyes,  ah !  that  is  a  sight. 

"The  organization  of  a  day-school  came  next.  There 
were  hundreds  of  children  in  the  district  close  about  the 
mission  who  were  wholly  without  instruction.  They  were 
too  dirty,  vicious  and  disorderly  to  be  admitted  into  any 
of  the  public  schools ;  and  unless  some  special  means  of 
education  were  provided,  they  must  grow  up  in  ignorance. 
It  was  therefore  resolved  to  open  a  day-school,  but  to 
find  a  teacher  with  her  heart  in  such  a  work  was  a  dif 
ficulty  hard  to  be  met ;  moreover,  it  was  thought  by  many 
unsafe  for  a  lady  to  remain  in  this  locality  alone,  even 
though  a  suitable  one  should  offer.  But  one  brave  and 
Belf-devoted  was  found,  and  one  Sunday  it  was  announced 
to  the  children  in  the  Sabbath-school  that  a  day  school 
would  be  opened  in  the  same  building  at  nine  o'clock  on 
Monday  morning. 

"  About  thirty  neglected  little  ones  from  the  lanes  and 
alleys  around  the  mission  were  found  at  the  schoolroom 
door  at  the  appointed  hour.  But  when  admitted,  very 
few  of  them  had  any  idea  of  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  collected.  The  efforts  of  the  teacher  to  seat  them 
proved  a  failure.  The  idea  among  them  seemed  to  be 
that  each  should  take  some  part  in  amusing  the  company. 
One  would  jump  from  the  back  of  a  bench  upon  which 
he  had  been  seated,  while  others  were  creeping  about  the 
floor ;  another,  who  deemed  himself  a  proficient  in  turn 
ing  somersaults,  would  be  trying  his  skill  in  this  way, 
while  his  neighbor,  equally  ambitious,  would  show  the 


CAST  ADRIFT.  253 

tetto/ut  &o*f  he  could  stand  on  his  head.  Occasionally 
they  wcMld  ^an&e  and  listen  to  the  singing  of  a  hymn  or 
the  reading  of  a  little  story ;  then  all  would  be  confusion 
again ;  and  chus  the  morning  wore  away.  The  first  ses 
sion  having  closed,  the  teacher  retired  to  her  home,  feel- 
Ing  that  a  repetition  of  the  scenes  through  which  she  had 
passed  could  scarcely  be  endured. 

"  Two  o'clock  found  her  again  at  the  door,  and  the  chil 
dren  soon  gathered  around  her.  Upon  entering  the 
schoolroom,  most  of  them  were  induced  to  be  seated,  and 
a  hymn  was  sung  which  they  had  learned  in  the  Sab 
bath-school.  When  it  was  finished,  the  question  was 
asked  '  Shall  we  pray?'  With  one  accord  they  answered, 
Yes/  '  And  will  you  be  quiet  ?'  They  replied  in  the 
affirmative.  All  were  then  requested  to  be  silent  and 
cover  their  faces.  In  this  posture  they  remained  until 
the  prayer  was  closed  ;  and  after  resuming  their  seats,  for 
some  minutes  order  was  preserved.  This  was  the  only 
encouraging  circumstance  of  the  day. 

"  For  many  weeks  a  stranger  would  scarcely  have  rec 
ognized  a  school  in  this  disorderly  gathering  which  day 
after  day  met  in  the  old  gloomy  building.  Very  many 
difficulties  which  we  may  not  name  were  met  and  con 
quered.  Fights  were  of  common  occurrence.  A  descrip 
tion  of  one  may  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  what  came 
frequently  under  our  notice. 

"  A  rough  boy  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  over  whom 

some  influence  had  been  gained,  was  chosen  monitor  one 

morning ;  and  as  he  was  a  leader  in  all  the  mischief,  it 

*as  hoped  that  putting  him  upon  his  honor  would  assist 

22 


254  CAST  ADRIFT. 

in  keeping  order.  Talking  aloud  was  forbidden.  For  ft 
few  minutes  matters  went  on  charmingly,  until  some  one, 
tired  of  the  restraint,  broke  silence.  The  monitor,  feel 
ing  the  importance  of  his  position,  and  knowing  of  but 
one  mode  of  redress,  instantly  struck  him  a  violent  blow 
upon  the  ear,  causing  him  to  scream  with  pain.  In  a 
moment  the  school  was  a  scene  of  confusion,  the  frienda 
of  each  boy  taking  sides,  and  before  the  cause  of  trouble 
could  be  ascertained  most  of  the  boys  were  piled  upon 
each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  creating  sounds 
altogether  indescribable.  The  teacher,  realizing  that  she 
was  alone,  and  not  well  understanding  her  influence,  feared 
for  a  moment  to  interfere ;  but  as  matters  were  growing 
worse,  something  must  be  done.  She  made  am  effort  to 
gain  the  ear  of  the  monitor,  and  asked  why  he  did  so. 
He,  confident  of  being  in  the  right,  answered, 

"  '  Teacher,  he  didn't  mind  you  ;  he  spoke,  and  I  licked 
him ;  and  I'll  do  it  again  if  he  don't  mind  you/ 

"His  services  were  of  course  no  longer  required,  al 
though  he  had  done  his  duty  according  to  his  understand 
ing  of  the  case. 

"Thus  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  this  work  nearly 
twenty  years  ago,"  said  the  missionary.  "  Now  we  have 
an  orderly  school  of  over  two  hundred  children,  who,  but 
for  the  opportunity  here  given,  would  grow  up  without 
even  the  rudiments  of  an  education.  Is  not  this  a  gain 
upon  the  enemy  ?  Think  of  a  school  like  this  doing  its 
work  daily  among  these  neglected  little  ones  for  nearly  a 
acore  of  years,  and  you  will  no  longer  feel  as  if  nothing 
had  been  done — as  if  no  headway  had  been  gained 


CAST  ADRIFT.  255 

Think,  too,  of  the  Sabbath-school  work  in  that  time,  and 
of  the  thousands  of  children  who  have  had  their  memories 
filled  with  precious  texts  from  the  Bible,  who  have  been 
told  of  the  loving  Saviour  who  came  into  the  world  and 
Buffered  and  died  for  them,  and  of  his  tender  love  and 
perpetual  care  over  his  children,  no  matter  how  poor  and 
vile  and  afar  off  from  him  they  may  be.  It  is  impossible 
that  the  good  seed  of  the  word  scattered  here  for  so  long 
a  time  should  not  have  taken  root  in  many  hearts.  We 
know  that  they  have,  and  can  point  to  scores  of  blessed 
instances — can  take  you  to  men  and  women,  now  good  and 
virtuous  people,  who,  but  for  our  day-  and  Sabbath-schools, 
would,  in  all  human  probability,  be  now  among  the  out 
cast,  the  vicious  and  the  criminal. 

"  So  much  for  what  has  been  done  among  the  children. 
Our  work  with  men  and  women  has  not  been  so  fruitful 
as  might  well  be  supposed,  and  yet  great  good  has  been 
accomplished  even  among  the  hardened,  the  desperate  and 
the  miserably  vile  and  besotted.  Bad  as  things  are  to 
day — awful  to  see  and  to  contemplate,  shocking  and  dis 
graceful  to  a  Christian  community — they  were  nearl}*  as 
'jad  again  at  the  time  this  mission  set  up  the  standard  of 
God  and  made  battle  in  his  name.  Our  work  begar  aa 
a  simple  religious  movement,  with  street  preaching." 

"  And  with  what  effect  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  With  good  effect,  in  a  limited  number  of  cases,  I  trust. 
In  a  degraded  community  like  this  there  will  always  be 
some  who  had  a  different  childhood  from  that  of  the 
crowds  of  young  heathen  who  swarm  its  courts  and  alleys; 
BO  me  who  in  early  life  had  religious  training,  and  in 


iJ56  CAST  ADRIFT. 

whose  memories  were  stored  up  holy  things  from  Scrip 
ture ;  some  who  have  tender  and  sweet  recollection  of  a 
mother  and  home  and  family  prayer  and  service  in  God's 
temples.  In  the  hearts  of  such  God's  Spirit  in  moving 
could  touch  and  quicken  and  flush  with  reviving  lif« 
these  old  memories,  and  through  them  bring  conviction 
of  sin,  and  an  intense  desire  to  rise  out  of  the  horrible 
pit  into  which  they  had  fallen  and  the  clay  wherein  their 
feet  were  mired.  Angels  could  come  near  to  these  by 
what  of  good  and  true  was  to  be  found  half  hidden,  but 
not  erased  from  their  book  of  life,  and  so  help  in  the  work 
of  their  recovery  and  salvation. 

"  But,  sir,  beyond  this  class  there  is  small  hope,  I  fear, 
in  preaching  and  praying.  The  great  mass  of  these 
wretched  beings  have  had  little  or  no  early  religious  in 
struction.  There  are  but  few,  if  any,  remains  of  things 
pure  and  good  and  holy  stored  away  since  childhood  in 
their  memories  to  be  touched  and  quickened  by  the  Spirit 
of  God.  And  so  we  must  approach  them  in  another  and 
more  external  way.  We  must  begin  with  their  physical 
evils,  and  lessen  these  as  fast  as  possible;  we  must  remove 
temptation  from  their  doors,  or  get  them  as  far  as  possible 
out  of  the  reach  of  temptation,  but  in  this  work  not  neg 
lecting  thj  religious  element  as  an  agency  of  untold 
power. 

"Christ  fed  the  hungry,  and  healed  the  sick,  and 
clothed  the  naked,  and  had  no  respect  unto  the  persons 
of  men.  And  we,  if  we  would  lift  up  fallen  humanity, 
must  learn  by  his  example.  It  is  not  by  preaching 
and  pray  or  and  revival  meetings  that  the  true  Christian 


CAST  ADRIFT.  257 

philanthropist  can  hope  to  accomplish  any  great  good 
among  the  people  here,  but  by  doing  all  in  his  power 
to  change  their  sad  external  condition  and  raise  them 
ont  of  their  suffering  and  degradation.  Without  some 
degref;  of  external  order  and  obedience  to  the  laws  of 
natural  life,  it  is,  I  hold,  next  to  impossible  to  plant  in 
the  mind  any  seeds  of  spiritual  truth.  There  is  no 
ground  there.  The  parable  of  the  sower  that  went  forth 
to  sow  illustrates  this  law.  Only  the  seed  that  fell  on 
good  ground  brought  forth  fruit.  Our  true  work,  then, 
among  this  heathen  people,  of  whom  the  churches  take  so 
little  care,  is  first  to  get  the  ground  in  order  for  the  plant 
ing  of  heavenly  seed.  Failing  in  this,  our  hope  is  small." 

"This  mission  has  changed  its  attitude  since  the  begin 
ning,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"Yes.  Good  and  earnest  men  wrought  for  years  with 
the  evil  elements  around  them,  trusting  in  God's  Spirit  to 
change  the  hearts  of  the  vile  and  abandoned  sinners 
among  whom  they  preached  and  prayed.  But  there 
was  little  preparation  of  the  ground,  and  few  seeds  got 
lodgment  except  in  stony  places,  by  the  wayside  and 
among  thorns.  Our  work  now  is  to  prepare  the  ground, 
and  in  this  work,  slowly  as  it  is  progressing,  we  have  great 
encouragement.  Every  year  we  can  mark  the  signs  of 
advancement.  Every  year  we  make  some  head  against 
the  enemy.  Every  year  our  hearts  take  courage  and  are 
refreshed  by  the  smell  of  grasses  and  the  odcr  of  fiowera 
and  the  sight  of  fruit-bearing  plants  in  once  barren  and 
dasolate  places.  The  ground  is  surely  being  made  ready 
for  the  sower." 

22 »  B 


258  CAST  ADRIFT, 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so  encouragingly,"  re 
turned  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  To  me  the  case  looked  desper 
ate — wellnigh  hopeless.  Anything  worse  than  I  have 
witnessed  here  seemed  impossible." 

"  It  is  only  by  comparisons,  as  I  said  before,  that  we 
can  get  at  the  true  measure  of  change  and  progress,"  an- 
swered  the  missionary.  "  Since  we  have  been  at  work  in 
earnest  to  improve  the  external  life  of  this  region,  we 
have  had  much  to  encourage  us.  True,  what  we  have 
done  has  made  only  a  small  impression  on  the  evil  that 
exists  here ;  but  the  value  of  this  impression  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  shows  what  can  be  done  with  larger  agencies. 
Double  our  effective  force,  and  we  can  double  the  result. 
Increase  it  tenfold,  and  ten  times  as  much  can  be  done." 

"What  is  your  idea  of  this  work?"  said  Mr.  Dinne 
ford.  "  In  other  words,  what  do  you  think  the  best  prac 
tical  way  to  purify  this  region  ?" 

"If  you  draw  burning  brands  and  embers  close  to 
gether,  your  fire  grows  stronger;  if  you  scatter  them 
apart,  it  will  go  out,"  answered  the  missionary.  "  Moral 
and  physical  laws  correspond  to  each  other.  Crowd 
bad  men  and  women  together,  and  they  corrupt  and 
deprave  each  other.  Separate  them,  and  you  limit  theii 
evil  power  and  make  more  possible  for  good  the  iuflu 
ence  of  better  conditions.  Let  me  give  you  an  instance 
A.  man  and  his  wife  who  had  lived  in  a  wretched  way  IL 
one  of  the  poorest  hovels  in  Briar  street  for  two  years, 
and  who  had  become  idle  and  intemperate,  disappeared 
from  among  us  about  six  months  ago.  None  of  theu 
teighbors  knew  or  cared  much  what  had  become  of  them 


CAST  ADRIFT.  'M 

They  had  two  children.  Last  week,  as  I  was  passk  *  the 
corner  of  a  street  in  the  south-western  part  of  the  city  in 
which  stood  a  row  of  small  new  houses,  a  neatly- dressed 
woman  came  out  of  a  store  with  a  basket  in  her  hand.  J 
did  not  know  her,  but  by  the  brightening  look  in  hei 
face  I  saw  that  she  knew  me. 

"  *  Mr.  Paulding/  she  said,  in  a  plea^d  way,  holding 
out  her  hand ;  « you  don't  know  me/  she  added,  seeing 
the  doubt  in  my  face.  « I  am  Mrs. .' 

" '  Impossible !'  I  could  not  help  exclaiming. 

" '  But  it's  true,  Mr.  Paulding,'  she  averred,  a  glow  of 
pleasure  on  her  countenance.  *  We've  turned  over  a  new 
leaf.' 

" '  So  I  should  think  from  your  appearance/  I  replied. 
*  Where  do  you  live  ?' 

" « In  the  third  house  from  the  corner/  pointing  to  the 
neat  row  of  small  brick  houses  I  have  mentioned.  '  Come 
and  look  at  our  new  home.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it.' 

"  I  was  too  much  pleased  to  need  a  second  invitation. 

" '  I've  got  as  clean  steps  as  my  neighbors/  she  said, 
with  pride  in  her  voice,  « and  shades  to  my  windows,  and 
a  bright  door-knob.  It  wasn't  so  in  Briar  street.  One 
had  no  heart  there.  Isn't  this  nice  ?' 

"And  she  glanced  around  the  little  parlor  we  had 
3i]  tered. 

"  It  was  nice,  compared  to  the  dirty  and  disorderly  place 
they  had  called  their  home  in  Briar  street.  The  floor  was 
covered  with  a  new  ingrain  carpet.  There  were  a  small 
table  and  six  cane-seat  chairs  in  the  room,  shades  at  the 
windows,  two  or  three  small  pictures  on  the  walls  ar  * 


260  CAST  ADRIFT. 

some  trifling  ornaments  on  the  mantel.  Everything  wa» 
clean  and  the  air  of  the  room  sweet. 

" « This  is  my  little  Emma/  she  said  as  a  cleanly-dressed 
child  came  into  the  room ;  '  you  remember  she  was  in  the 
school.' 

"  I  did  remember  her  as  a  ragged,  dirty-faced  child, 
forlorn  and  neglected,  like  most  of  the  children  about 
here.  It  was  a  wonderful  transformation. 

" « And  now,'  I  said,  <  tell  me  how  all  this  has  come 
about.' 

" « Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Paulding,'  she  answered,  '  there 
was  no  use  in  John  and  me  trying  to  be  anything  down 
there.  It  was  temptation  on  every  hand,  and  we  were 
weak  and  easily  tempted.  There  was  nothing  to  make  us 
look  up  or  to  feel  any  pride.  We  lived  like  our  neigh 
bors,  and  you  know  what  kind  of  a  way  that  was. 

" '  One  day  John  said  to  me,  "  Emma,"  says  he,  "  it's  aw 
ful,  the  way  we're  living ;  we'd  better  be  dead."  His  voice 
was  shaky-like,  and  it  kind  of  made  me  feel  bad.  "  I 
know  it,  John,"  said  I,  "  but  what  can  we  do  ?"  "  Go  'way 
from  here,"  he  said.  "  But  where  ?"  I  asked.  "  Anywhere. 
I'm  not  all  played  out  yet;"  and  he  held  up  his  hand  and 
shut  it  tight.  "  There's  good  stuff  in  me  yet,  and  if  you're 
willing  to  make  a  new  start,  I  am."  I  put  my  hand  in 
his,  and  said,  "  God  helping  me,  I  will  try,  John."  He 
went  off  that  very  day  and  got  a  room  in  a  decent  neigh 
borhood,  and  we  moved  in  it  before  night.  We  had  only 
one  cart-load,  and  a  wretched  load  of  stuff  it  was.  But 
I  can't  tell  you  how  much  better  it  looked  when  we  got 
t.  into  our  new  room,  the  walls  of  which  were  nicely 


CAST  ADRIFT.  26J 

papered,  and  the  paint  clean  and  white.  I  fixed  up  every 
thing  and  made  it  as  neat  as  possible.  John  was  so  pleased 
"  It  feels  something  like  old  times,"  he  said.  He  had  been 
knocking  about  a  good  while,  picking  up  odd  jobs  and 
not  half  working,  but  he  took  heart  now,  quit  drinking 
and  went  to  work  in  good  earnest,  and  was  soon  making 
ten  dollars  a  week,  every  cent  of  which  he  brought  home. 
He  now  gets  sixteen  dollars.  We  haven't  made  a  back 
step  since.  But  it  wouldn't  have  been  any  use  trying  if 
we'd  stayed  in  Briar  street.  Pride  helped  us  a  good  deal 
in  the  beginning,  sir.  I  was  ashamed  not  to  have  my 
children  looking  as  clean  as  my  neighbor's,  and  ashamed 
not  to  keep  things  neat  and  tidy-like.  I  didn't  care  any 
thing  about  it  in  Briar  street/ 

"  I  give  you  this  iijstance,  true  in  nearly  every  particu 
lar,"  said  the  missionary,  "  in  order  to  show  you  how  in 
curable  is  the  evil  condition  of  the  people  here ;  unless  we 
can  get  the  burning  brands  apart,  they  help  to  consume 
each  other." 

"  But  how  to  get  them  apart  ?  thai  is  the  difficult  ques 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Diimeford. 

"  There  are  two  ways,"  was  replied — "  by  forcing  the 
human  brands  apart,  and  by  interposing  incombustible 
things  between  them.  As  we  have  no  authority  to  appiy 
force,  and  no  means  at  hand  for  its  exercise  if  we  had 
the  authority,  our  work  has  been  in  the  other  direction. 
We  have  been  trying  to  get  in  among  these  burning 
brands  elements  that  would  stand  the  fire,  and  sc 
the  ardor  of  combustion." 

"  How  are  you  doing  this  9" 


462  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  By  getting  better  houses  for  the  people  to  live  in. 
[mprove  the  house,  make  it  more  sightly  and  convenient, 
and  in  most  cases  you  will  improve  the  person  who  lives 
in  it.  He  will  not  kindle  so  easily,  though  he  yet  remain 
close  to  the  burning  brands." 

"  And  are  you  doing  this  ?" 

"A  little  has  been  done.  Two  or  three  years  ago  a 
building  association  was  organized  by  a  few  gentlemen  of 
means,  with  a  view  to  the  purchase  of  property  in  this 
district  and  the  erection  of  small  but  good  houses,  to  be 
rented  at  moderate  cost  to  honest  and  industrious  people, 
A  number  of  such  houses  have  already  been  built,  and 
they  are  now  occupied  by  tenants  of  a  better  class,  whose 
influence  on  their  neighbors  is  becoming  more  and  more 
apparent  every  day.  Brady  street — once  the  worst  place 
in  all  this  district — has  changed  wonderfully.  There  is 
scarcely  a  house  in  the  two  blocks  through  which  it  runs 
that  does  not  show  some  improvement  since  the  association 
pulled  down  half  a  dozen  of  its  worst  frame  tenements 
and  put  neat  brick  dwellings  in  their  places.  It  is  no 
uncommon  thing  now  to  see  pavement  sweeping  and 
washing  in  front  of  some  of  the  smallest  and  poorest  of 
the  houses  in  Brady  street  where  two  years  ago  the  dirt 
would  stick  to  your  feet  in  passing.  A  clean  muslin  half 
curtain,  a  paper  shade  or  a  pot  of  growing  plants  will 
meet  your  eyes  at  a  window  here  and  there  as  you  pasa 
along.  The  thieves  who  once  harbored  in  this  street,  and 
hid  their  plunder  in  cellars  and  garrets  until  it  could  bi 
told  or  pawned,  have  abandoned  the  locality.  They  could 
aot  live  side  by  side  with  honest  industry." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  263 

•«  And  all  this  change  may  be  traced  to  the  work  of 
our  building  association,  limited  as  are  its  mean?  and 
half-hearted  as  are  its  operations.  The  worst  of  our  popu 
lation — the  common  herd  of  thieves,  beggars  and  vile 
women  who  expose  themselves  shamelessly  on  the  street — 
are  beginning  to  feel  less  at  home  and  more  in  danger  of 
arrest  and  exposure.  The  burning  brands  are  no  longer 
in  such  close  contact,  and  so  the  fires  of  evil  are  raging 
less  fiercely.  Let  in  the  light,  and  the  darkness  flees. 
Establish  the  good,  and  evil  shrinks  away,  weak  and 
abashed." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SO  the  morning  found  them  fast  asleep.  The  mac 
awoke  first  and  felt  the  child  against  his  bosom,  soft 
and  warm.  It  was  some  moments  ere  he  understood  what 
it  meant.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wretched  life  he  had  been 
leading  was  all  a  horrible  dream  out  of  which  he  had 
awakened,  and  that  the  child  sleeping  in  his  bosom  was 
his  own  tenderly-loved  baby.  But  the  sweet  illusions 
faded  away,  and  the  hard,  sorrowful  truth  stood  out 
sternly  before  him. 

Then  Andy's  eyes  opened  and  looked  into  his  face. 
There  was  nothing  scared  in  the  look — hardly  an  expres 
sion  of  surprise.  But  the  man  saw  a  mute  appeal  and  a 
tender  confidence  that  made  his  heart  swell  and  yearn 
toward  the  homeless  little  one. 

"  Had  a  nice  sleep  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  of  friendly 
encouragement. 

Andy  nodded  his  head,  and  then  gazed  curiously  about 
the  room. 

"  Want  some  breakfast  ?" 

The  hungry  face  lit  up  with  a  flash  of  pleasure. 

"  Of  course  you  do,  little  one." 

The  man  was  on  his  feet  by  this  time,  with  his  hand 
in  his  pocket,  from  which  he  drew  a  number  of  pennies. 
These  he  counted  over  carefully  twice.  The  number  was 
264 


CAST  ADRIFT.  265 

just  ten.  If  there  had  been  only  himself  to  provide  for, 
it  w-uld  not  have  taken  long  to  settle  the  question  of 
expenditure.  Five  cents  at  an  eating-shop  where  the 
caterer  supplied  himself  from  the  hodge-podge  of  beggars' 
baskets  would  have  given  him  a  breakfast  fit  for  a  dog 
or  pig,  while  the  remaining  five  cents  would  have  gone 
for  fiery  liquor  to  quench  a  burning  thirst. 

But  another  mouth  had  to  be  fed.  All  at  once  thia 
poor  degraded  man  had  risen  to  a  sense  of  responsibility, 
and  was  practicing  the  virtue  of  self-denial.  A  little 
child  was  leading  him. 

He  had  no  toilette  to  make,  no  ablutions  to  practice. 
There  was  neither  pail  nor  wash-basin  in  his  miserable 
kennel.  So,  without  any  delay  of  preparation,  he  caught 
up  the  broken  mug  and  went  out,  as  forlorn  a  looking 
wretch  as  was  to  be  seen  in  all  that  region.  Almost 
every  house  that  he  passed  was  a  grog-shop,  and  his  nerves 
were  all  unstrung  and  his  mouth  and  throat  dry  from  a 
night's  abstinence.  But  he  was  able  to  go  by  withe ut  a 
pause.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  with  a  loi-f  of 
bread,  a  pint  of  milk  and  a  single  dried  sausage. 

What  a  good  breakfast  the  two  made !  Not  for  a  long 
time  had  the  man  so  enjoyed  a  meal.  The  sight  of  little 
Andy,  as  he  ate  with  the  fine  relish  of  a  hungry  child, 
made  his  dry  bread  and  sausage  taste  sweeter  than  any 
thing  that  had  passed  his  lips  for  weeks. 

Something  more  than  the  food  he  had  taken  steadied 
the  man's  nerves  and  allayed  his  thirst.  Love  was  beat 
ing  back  into  his  heart — love  for  this  homeless  wanderer, 
coming  had  supplied  the  lost  links  in  the  chain 


CAST  ADEIFT. 

which  bound  him  to  the  past  and  called  up  memorial 
that  had  slept  almost  the  sleep  of  death  for  years.  Good 
resolutions  began  forming  in  his  mind. 

"It  may  be,"  he  said  to  himself  as  new  and  better 
impressions  than  he  had  known  for  a  long  time  began  to 
crowd  upon  him,  "  that  God  has  led  this  baby  here." 

The  thought  sent  a  strange  thrill  to  his  soul.  He  trem 
bled  with  excess  of  feeling.  He  had  once  been  a  relig* 
ious  man;  and  with  the  old  instinct  of  dependence  OE 
God,  he  clasped  his  hands  together  with  a  sudden,  desper 
ate  energy,  and  looking  up,  cried,  in  a  half-despairing, 
half-trustful  voice, 

"Lord,  help  me!" 

No  earnest  cry  like  that  ever  goes  up  without  an  in 
stant  answer  in  the  gift  of  divine  strength.  The  man 
felt  it  in  a  stronger  purpose  and  a  quickening  hope.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  new  power  in  himself. 

"  God  being  my  helper,"  he  said  in  the  silence  of  his 
heart,  "  I  will  be  a  man  again." 

There  was  a  long  distance  between  him  and  a  true 
manhood.  The  way  back  was  over  very  rough  and  dif 
ficult  places,  and  through  dangers  and  temptations  almost 
impossible  to  resist.  Who  would  have  faith  in  him? 
Who  would  help  him  in  his  great  extremity  ?  How  wag 
he  to  live  ?  Not  any  longer  by  begging  or  petty  theft. 
He  must  do  honest  work.  There  was  no  hope  in  any 
thing  else.  If  God  were  to  be  his  helper,  he  must  be 
honest,  and  work.  To  this  conviction  he  had  come. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  with  Andy  while  he  was  away 
frying  to  earn  something?  The  child  might  get  hurt  ir 


CAST  ADRIFT.  267 

the  street  or  wander  off  in  his  absence  and  never  find  his 
way  back.  The  care  he  felt  for  the  little  one  was  pleas 
ure  compared  to  the  thought  of  losing  him. 

As  fcr  Andy,  the  comfort  of  a  good  breakfast  and  the 
feeling  that  he  had  a  home,  mean  as  it  was,  and  some 
body  to  care  for  him,  made  his  heart  light  and  set  his 
lips  to  music. 

When  before  had  the  dreary  walls  of  that  poor  hovel 
echoed  to  the  happy  voice  of  a  light-hearted  child  ?  But 
there  was  another  echo  to  the  voice,  and  from  walls  as 
long  a  stranger  to  such  sounds  as  these — the  walls  in  the 
chambers  of  that  poor  man's  memory.  A  wellnigh  lost 
and  ruined  soul  was  listening  to  the  far-off  voices  of  chil 
dren.  Sunny-haired  little  ones  were  thronging  about 
him ;  he  was  looking  into  their  tender  eyes ;  their  soft 
arms  were  clinging  to  his  neck ;  he  was  holding  them 
tightly  clasped  to  his  bosom. 

"  Baby,"  he  said.  It  was  the  word  that  came  most 
naturally  to  his  lips. 

Andy,  who  was  sitting  where  a  few  sunbeams  came  in 
through  a  rent  in  the  wall,  with  the  warm  light  on  his 
head,  turned  and  looked  into  the  bleared  but  friendly 
eyes  gazing  at  him  so  earnestly. 

"  I'm  going  out,  baby.  Will  you  stay  here  till  I  come 
back?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  child,  "  I'll  stay." 

"  I  won't  be  gone  very  long,  and  I'll  bring  you  an 
ipple  and  s  merhiug  good  for  dinner." 

Andy's  face  lit  up  and  his  eyes  danced. 

"  Don't  go  out  until  I  come  back.    Somebody  might 


268  CAST  ADRIFT. 

carry  you  off,  and  then  I  couldn't  give  you  the  nice  red 
apple." 

"  I'll  stay  right  here,"  said  Andy,  in  a  positive  tone. 

"  And  won't  go  into  the  street  till  I  come  back  ?" 

"  No,  I  won't."  Andy  knit  his  brows  and  closed  his 
lips  firmly. 

"  All  right,  little  one,"  answered  the  man,  in  a  cheery 
sort  of  voice  that  was  so  strange  tc  his  own  ears  that  it 
seemed  like  the  voice  of  somebody  e.  se. 

Still,  he  could  not  feel  satisfied,  lie  was  living  in  the 
midst  of  thieves  to  whom  the  most  insignificant  thing 
upon  which  they  could  lay  their  hands  was  booty.  Chil 
dren  who  had  learned  to  be  hard  and  cruel  thronged  the 
court,  and  he  feared,  if  he  left  Andy  alone  in  the  hovel, 
that  it  would  not  only  be  robbed  of  its  meagre  furniture, 
but  the  child  subjected  to  ill-treatment.  He  had  always 
fastened  the  door  on  going  out,  but  hesitated  now  about 
locking  Andy  in. 

All  things  considered,  it  was  safest,  he  felt,  to  lock  the 
door.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  that  could  bring 
harm  to  the  child — no  fire  or  matches,  no  stairs  to  climb 
or  windows  out  of  which  he  could  fall. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  lock  the  door,  hadn't  I,  so  that  no 
body  can  carry  off  my  little  boy  ?"  he  asked  of  Andy. 

Andy  made  no  objections.  He  was  ready  for  anything 
his  kind  friend  might  propose. 

"  And  you  mustn't  cry  or  make  a  noise.  The  police 
might  break  in  if  you  did." 

"  All  right,"  said  Andy,  with  the  self-assertion  of  a  boy 
->f  ten. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  268 

The  man  stroked  the  child's  head  and  ran  his  finger* 
through  his  hair  in  a  fond  way;  then,  as  one  who  tore 
himself  from  an  object  of  attraction,  went  hastily  out 
and  locked  the  door. 

And  now  was  to  begin  a  new  life.  Friendless,  debased, 
yepulsive  in  appearance,  everything  about  him  denoting 
the  abandoned  drunkard,  this  man  started  forth  to  get 
honest  bread.  Where  should  he  go  ?  What  could  he  do? 
Who  would  give  employment  to  an  object  like  him  ?  The 
odds  were  fearfully  against  him — no,  not  that,  either.  In 
outward  respects,  fearful  enough  were  the  odds,  but  on  the 
other  side  agencies  invisible  to  mortal  sight  were  organ 
izing  for  his  safety.  In  to  his  purpose  to  lead  a  new  life 
and  help  a  poor  homeless  child  God's  strength  was  flow 
ing.  Angels  were  drawing  near  to  a  miserable  wreck  of 
humanity  with  hands  outstretched  to  save.  All  heaven 
was  coming  to  the  rescue. 

He  was  shuffling  along  in  the  direction  of  a  market- 
house,  hoping  to  earn  a  little  by  carrying  home  baskets, 
when  he  came  face  to  face  with  an  old  friend  of  his  bet 
ter  days,  a  man  with  whom  he  had  once  held  close  busi 
ness  relations. 

"  Mr.  Hall !"  exclaimed  this  man  in  a  tone  of  sorrow 
ful  surprise,  stopping  and  looking  at  him  with  an  ex 
pression  of  deepest  pity  on  his  countenance.  "  This  is 
dreadful !" 

"  You  may  well  say  that,  Mr.  Graham.  It  is  dread 
ful  enough.  No  one  knows  that  better  than  I  do,"  was 
answered,  with  a  bitterness  that  his  old  friend  felt  to  be 
genuine. 

2?* 


270  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"Why,  then,  lead  this  terrible  life  a  day  longer f 
asked  the  friend. 

"  I  shall  not  lead  it  a  day  longer  if  God  will  help  me," 
was  replied,  with  a  genuineness  of  purpose  that  was  felt 
by  Mr.  Graham. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  that,  Andrew  Hall,"  he  ex 
claimed.  Two  hands  closed  in  a  tight  grip. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?"  inquired  the  friend. 

"I'm  in  search  of  something  to  do— something  that 
will  give  me  honest  bread.  Look  at  my  hand." 

He  held  it  up. 

"It  shakes,  you  see.  I  have  not  tasted  liquor  thia 
morning.  I  could  have  bought  it,  but  I  did  not." 

"Why?" 

"  I  said,  '  God  being  my  helper,  I  will  be  a  man  again, 
and  I  am  trying." 

"Andrew  Hall,"  said  his  old  friend,  solemnly,  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  if  you  are  really  in  earn 
est — if  you  do  mean,  in  the  help  of  God,  to  try — all  will 
be  well.  But  in  his  help  alone  is  there  any  hope.  Have 
you  seen  Mr.  Paulding  ?" 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  has  no  faith  in  me.  I  have  deceived  him  too 
often." 

"What  ground  of  faith  is  there  now?"  asked  Mi. 
Graham. 

"  This,"  was  the  firm  but  hastily  spoken  answer.  "  Last 
night,  as  I  sat  in  the  gloom  of  my  dreary  hovel,  feeling 
so  wretched  that  I  wished  I  could  die,  a  little  child 


CAST  ADRIFT.  271 

poor,  HIC  therless,  homeless  wanderer,  almcAt  a  baby— 
and  crept  down  to  my  heart,  and  he  is  lying  there  still, 
Mr.  Graham,  soft  and  warm  and  precious,  a  sweet  burden 
to  bear.  I  bought  him  a  supper  and  a  breakfast  of  brea  1 
and  milk  with  the  money  I  had  saved  for  drink,  and 
now,  both  for  his  sake  and  mine,  I  am  out  seeking  for 
work.  I  have  locked  him  in,  so  that  no  one  can  harm  or 
carry  him  away  while  I  earn  enough  to  buy  him  his  din 
ner,  and  maybe  something  better  to  wear,  poor  little 
homeless  thing!" 

There  was  a  genuine  earnestness  and  pathos  about  the 
man  that  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  his  voice  not  quite  steady, 
"  that  God  brought  us  together  this  morning.  I  know 
Mr.  Paulding.  Let  us  go  first  to  the  mission,  and  have 
some  talk  with  him.  You  must  have  a  bath  and  better 
and  cleaner  clothes  before  you  are  in  a  condition  to  get 
employment." 

The  bath  and  a  suit  of  partly-worn  but  good  clean 
clothes  were  supplied  at  the  mission  house. 

"  Now  come  with  me,  and  I  will  find  you  something  tc? 
do,"  said  the  old  friend. 

But  Andrew  Hall  stood  hesitating. 

"  The  little  child — I  told  him  I'd  come  back  soon.  He'a 
locked  up  all  alone,  poor  baby !" 

He  spoke  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  true,  true !"  answered  Mr.  Graham ;  "  the  baby 
must  be  looked  after ;"  and  he  explained  to  the  mission- 
try. 

M I  will  go  round  with  you  and  get  the  child,"  said  Mr 


272  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Paulding.  "  My  wife  will  take  care  of  him  while  you  art 
away  with  Mr.  Graham." 

They  found  little  Andy  sitting  patiently  on  the  floor. 
He  did  not  know  the  friend  who  had  given  him  a  home 
and  food  and  loving  words,  and  looked  at  him  half  scared 
and  doubting.  But  his  voice  made  the  child  spring  to  his 
feet  with  a  bound,  and  flushed  his  thin  face  with  the  joy 
of  a  glad  recognition. 

Mrs.  Paulding  received  him  with  a  true  motherly  kind 
ness,  and  soon  a  bath  and  clean  clothing  wrought  as  great 
a  change  in  the  child  as  they  had  done  in  the  man. 

"  I  want  your  help  in  saving  him,"  said  Mr.  Graham, 
aside,  to  the  missionary.  "  He  was  once  among  our  most 
respectable  citizens,  a  good  church-member,  a  good 
husband  and  father,  a  man  of  ability  and  large  influence. 
Society  lost  much  when  it  lost  him.  He  is  well  worth 
saving,  and  we  must  do  it  if  possible.  God  sent  him  this 
little  child  to  touch  his  heart  and  flood  it  with  old  mem 
ories,  and  then  he  led  me  to  come  down  here  that  I  might 
meet  and  help  him  just  when  his  good  purposes  made  help 
needful  and  salvation  possible.  It  is  all  of  his  loving  care 
and  wise  providence — of  his  tender  mercy,  which  is  over 
the  poorest  and  weakest  and  most  degraded  of  his  chil 
dren.  Will  yo  i  give  him  your  special  care  ?" 

"  It  is  the  work  I  am  here  to  do,"  answered  the  mis 
sionary.  "The  Master  came  to  seek  and  to  save  that 
which  was  lost,  and  I  am  his  humble  follower." 

"The  child  will  have  to  be  provided  for,"  said  Mr. 
Graham.  "It  cannot,  of  course,  be  left  with  him.  It 
needs  a  woman's  care." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  273 

"  It  will  not  do  to  separate  them,"  returned  the  mission 
ary.  "As  you  remarked  just  now,  God  sent  him  this  lit 
tle  child  to  touch  his  heart  and  lead  him  back  from  the 
wilderness  in  which  he  has  strayed.  His  safety  depends 
on  the  touch  of  that  hand.  So  long  as  he  feels  its  clasp 
and  its  pull,  he  will  walk  in  the  new  way  wherein  God  is 
setting  his  feet.  No,  no;  the  child  must  be  left  with  him 
— at  least  for  the  present.  We  will  take  care  of  it  while 
he  is  at  work  during  the  day,  and  at  night  it  can  sleep  in 
his  arms,  a  protecting  angel." 

"  What  kind  of  a  place  does  he  live  in  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Graham. 

"  A  dog  might  dwell  there  in  comfort,  but  not  a  man." 
replied  the  missionary. 

Mr.  Graham  gave  him  money :  "  Provide  a  decent 
room.  If  more  is  required,  let  me  know." 

He  then  went  away,  taking  Mr.  Hall  with  him. 

"  You  will  find  the  little  one  here  when  you  come  back," 
said  Mr.  Paulding  as  he  saw  the  anxious,  questioning 
look  that  was  cast  toward  Andy. 

Clothed  and  in  his  right  mind,  but  in  no  condition  for 
work,  was  Andrew  Hall.  Mr.  Graham  soon  noticed,  aa 
he  walked  by  his  side,  that  he  was  in  a  very  nervous  con 
dition. 

"  What  had  you  for  breakfast  this  morning  ?"  he  asked, 
the  right  thought  coming  into  his  mind. 

"  Not  much.     Some  bread  and  a  dried  sausage." 

"  Oh  dear!  that  will  never  do !  You  must  have  some- 
thing  more  nutritious — a  good  beefsteak  and  a  cup  of 
ooffee  to  steady  your  nerves.  Come." 

8 


274  CAST  ADRIFT. 

And  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  in  an  eating-house 
When  they  came  out,  Hall  was  a  different  man.  Mr 
Graham  then  took  him  to  his  store  and  set  him  to  work 
to  arrange  and  file  a  number  of  letters  and  papers,  which 
occupied  him  for  several  hours.  He  saw  that  he  had  a 
{rood  dinner  and  at  five  o'clock  gave  him  a  couple  of  dol 
lars  for  his  day's  work,  and  after  many  kind  words  of 
advice  and  assurance  told  him  to  come  back  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  he  would  find  something  else  for  him  to  do. 

Swiftly  as  his  feet  would  carry  him,  Andrew  Hall  made 
his  way  to  the  Briar  street  mission.  He  did  not  at  first 
know  the  clean,  handsome  child  that  lifted  his  large 
brown  eyes  to  his  face  as  he  came  in,  nor  did  the  child 
.now  him  until  he  spoke.  Then  a  cry  of  pleasure  broke 
from  the  baby's  lips,  and  he  ran  to  the  arms  reached  out 
to  clasp  him. 

"  We'll  go  home  now,"  he  said,  as  if  anxious  to  regain 
possession  of  the  child. 

"Not  back  to  Grubb's  court,"  was  answered  by  Mr. 
Paulding.  "  If  you  are  going  to  be  a  new  man,  you  must 
have  a  new  and  better  home,  and  I've  found  one  for  you 
just  a  little  way  from  here.  It's  a  nice  clean  room,  and 
I'll  take  you  there.  The  rent  is  six  dollars  a  month,  but 
you  can  easily  pay  that  when  you  get  fairly  to  work." 

The  room  was  in  the  second  story  of  a  small  houst* 
better  kept  than  most  of  its  neighbors,  and  contained  a 
comfortable  bed,  with  other  needed  furniture,  scanty,  but 
clean  and  good.  It  was  to  Mr.  Hall  like  the  chamber  of 
a  prince  compared  with  what  he  had  known  for  a  long 
time;  and  aa  he  looked  around  him  and  comprehended 


ANDY'S  FIRST  PRAYER. 


See  page  275. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  27B 

something  of  the  blessed  change  that  was  coming  ovei 
his  life,  tears  filled  his  eyes. 

"  Bring  Andy  around  in  the  morning,"  said  the  mi& 
sionary  as  he  turned  to  go.  "  Mrs.  Paulding  will  takt 
good  care  of  him." 

That  night,  after  undressing  the  child  and  putting  01 
him  the  clean  night-gown  which  good  Mrs.  Paulding  hart 
not  forgotten,  he  said, 

"  And  now  Andy  will  say  his  prayers." 

Andy  looked  at  him  with  wide-open,  questioning  eye* 
Mr.  Hall  saw  that  he  was  not  understood. 

"  You  know,  'Now  I  lay  me' ?"  he  said. 

"  No,  don't  know  it,"  replied  Andy. 

"'Our  Father,'  then?" 

The  child  knit  his  brow.  It  was  plain  that  he  did  n .  - 
understand  what  his  good  friend  meant. 

"You've  said  your  prayers?" 

Andy  shook  his  head  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"  Never  said  your  prayers !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hall,  in  a 
voice  so  full  of  surprise  and  pain  that  Andy  grew  half 
frightened. 

"  Poor  baby  I''  was  said,  pityingly,  a  moment  after. 
Then  the  question,  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  say  youi 
prayers  ?"  brought  the  quick  answer,  "  Yes." 

"Kneel  down,  then,  right  here."  Andy  knelt,  look 
ing  up  almost  wonderingly  into  the  face  that  bent  over 
him. 

"  We  have  a  good  Father  in  heaven,"  said  Mr.  Hall, 
with  teuder  reverence  in  his  tone,  pointing  upward  as  he 
spoke  "  He  loves  us  and  takes  care  of  us.  He  brought 


276  CAST  ADEIFT. 

you  to  me,  and  told  me  to  love  you  and  take  care  of  you 
for  him,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it.  Now,  I  want  you  to  say 
a  little  prayer  to  this  good  and  kind  Father  before  you 
go  to  bed.  Will  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  came  the  ready  answer. 

"  Say  it  over  after  me.     '  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep/  " 

Andy  repeated  the  words,  his  little  hands  clasped 
together,  and  followed  through  the  verse  which  thou 
sands  of  little  children  in  thousands  of  Christian  homes 
were  saying  at  the  very  same  hour. 

There  was  a  subdued  expression  on  the  child's  face  as 
he  rose  from  his  knees ;  and  when  Mr.  Hall  lifted  him 
from  the  floor  to  lay  him  in  bed,  he  drew  his  arms  about 
his  neck  and  hugged  him  tightly. 

How  beautiful  the  child  looked  as  he  lay  with  shut 
eyes,  the  long  brown  lashes  fringing  his  flushed  cheeks, 
that  seemed  already  to  have  gained  a  healthy  roundness  I 
The  soft  breath  came  through  his  parted  lips,  about  which 
still  lingered  the  smile  of  peace  that  rested  there  after 
his  first  prayer  was  said ;  his  little  hands  lay  upon  hia 
breast. 

As  Mr.  Hall  sat  gazing  at  this  picture  there  came  a 
rap  on  his  door.  Then  the  missionary  entered.  Neither 
of  the  men  spoke  for  some  moments.  Mr.  Paulding 
comprehended  the  scene,  and  felt  its  sweet  and  holy  in 
fluence. 

"Blessed  childhood!"  he  said,  breaking  the  silence 
"Innocent  childhood!  The  nearer  we  come  to  it,  the 
nearer  we  ge4  to  heaven."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added, 
'*  And  heaven  is  our  only  hope,  Mr.  Hall." 


CAST  ADRIFT.  277 

"  I  have  no  hope  but  in  God's  strength,"  was  answered, 
in  a  tone  of  solemn  earnestness. 

"  God  is  our  refuge,  our  rock  of  defence,  our  hiding- 
place,  our  sure  protector.  If  we  trust  in  him,  we  shall 
dwell  in  safety,"  said  the  missionary.  "I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  speak  of  hoping  in  God.  He  will  give  you 
strength  if  you  lean  upon  him,  and  there  is  not  power 
enough  in  all  hell  to  drag  you  down  if  you  put  forth 
this  God-given  strength.  But  remember,  my  friend,  that 
you  must  use  it  as  if  it  were  your  own.  You  must  resist. 
God's  strength  outside  of  our  will  and  effort  is  of  no  use 
to  any  of  us  in  temptation.  But  looking  to  our  Lord 
and  Saviour  in  humble  yet  earnest  prayer  for  help  in  the 
hour  of  trial  and  need,  if  we  put  forth  our  strength  in 
resistance  of  evil,  small  though  it  be,  then  into  our  weak 
efforts  will  come  an  influx  of  divine  power  that  shall 
surely  give  us  the  victory.  Have  you  a  Bible  ?" 

Mr.  Hall  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  brought  you  one;"  and  the  missionary  drew  a 
small  Bible  from  his  pocket.  "  No  man  is  safe  without  a 
Bible." 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad !  I  was  just  wishing  for  a  Bible," 
said  Hall  as  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  receive  the  pre 
cious  book. 

"If  you  read  it  every  night  and  morning — if  you 
treasure  its  holy  precepts  in  your  memory,  and  call  them 
up  in  times  rf  trial,  or  when  evil  enticements  are  in  your 
way — God  can  come  near  to  your  soul  to  succor  and  to 
save,  for  the  words  of  the  holy  book  are  his  words,  a&J 
he  is  present  in  them.  If  we  take  them  into  our  thought^ 

24 


278  CAST  ADRIFT. 

reverently  seeking  to  obey  them,  we  make  a  dwelling 
place  for  the  Lord,  so  that  he  can  abide  with  us ;  and  in 
his  presence  there  is  safety." 

"  And  nowhere  else,"  responded  Hall,  speaking  from  a 
deep  sense  of  personal  helplessness. 

"  Nowhere  else,"  echoed  the  missionary.  "  And  herein 
lies  the  hope  or  the  despair  of  men.  It  is  pitiful,  it  is  heart- 
aching,  to  see  the  vain  but  wild  and  earnest  efforts  made 
by  the  slaves  of  intemperance  to  get  free  from  their  cruel 
bondage.  Thousands  rend  their  fetters  every  year  after 
some  desperate  struggle,  and  escape.  But,  alas!  how 
many  are  captured  and  taken  back  into  slavery !  Appe 
tite  springs  upon  them  in  some  unguarded  moment,  and 
in  their  weakness  there  is  none  to  succor.  They  do  not 
go  to  the  Strong  for  strength,  but  trust  in  themselves,  and 
are  cast  down.  Few  are  ever  redeemed  from  the  slavery 
of  intemperance  but  those  who  pray  to  God  and  humbly 
seek  his  aid.  And  so  long  as  they  depend  on  him,  they 
are  safe.  He  will  be  as  a  wall  of  fire  about  them." 

As  the  missionary  talked,  the  face  of  Mr.  Hall  undei 
went  a  remarkable  change.  It  grew  solemn  and  very 
thoughtful.  His  hands  drew  together  and  the  fingers 
clasped.  At  the  last  words  of  Mr.  Paulding  a  deep  groan 
came  from  his  heart;  and  lifting  his  gaze  upward,  he 
cried  out, 

"  Lord,  save  me,  or  I  perish !" 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  the  missionary,  and  the  two  men 
knelt  together,  one  with  bowed  head  and  crouching  body, 
the  other  with  face  uplifted,  tenderly  talking  to  Him  who 
bad  come  down  to  the  lowHest  and  the  vilest  that  he 


CAST  ADRIFT.  279 

might  make  them   pure  as  the  angels,  about  the  poor 
prodigal  now  coming  back  to  his  Father's  house. 

After  the  prayer,  Mr.  Paulding  read  a  chapter  from 
the  Bible  aloud,  and  then,  after  words  of  hope  and  com' 
fort,  went  away. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

"T  TAKE  reproof  to  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford 
-L  "As  one  of  your  board  of  managers,  I  ought  tc 
have  regarded  my  position  as  more  than  a  nominal  one, 
I  understand  better  now  what  you  said  about  the  ten  or 
twenty  of  our  rich  and  influential  men  who,  if  they  could 
be  induced  to  look  away  for  a  brief  period  from  theii 
great  enterprises,  and  concentrate  thought  and  effort  upon 
the  social  evils,  abuse  of  justice,  violations  of  law,  pov 
erty  and  suffering  that  exist  here  and  in  other  parts  of 
our  city,  would  inaugurate  reforms  and  set  beneficent 
agencies  at  work  that  would  soon  produce  marvelous 
changes  for  good." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  sighed  Mr.  Pauldiug.  "  If  we  had  for  just 
a  little  while  the  help  of  our  strong  men — the  men  of 
brains  and  will  and  money,  the  men  who  are  used  to 
commanding  success,  whose  business  it  is  to  organize 
forces  and  set  impediments  at  defiance,  the  men  whose 
word  is  a  kind  of  law  to  the  people — how  quickly,  and 
as  if  by  magic,  would  all  this  change ! 

"  But  we  cannot  now  hope  to  get  this  great  diversion 
n  our  favor.  Until  we  do  we  must  stand  in  the  breach 
imall  in  numbers  and  weak  though  we  are — must  go  on 
doing  our  best  and  helping  when  we  may.  Help  is  help 
and  good  is  good,  be  it  ever  so  small.  If  I  am  able  tc 

280 


CAST  ADIIIFT.  281 

rescue  but  a  single  life  where  many  are  drowning,  I  make 
just  so  much  head  against  death  and  destruction.  Shall 
I  stand  off  and  refuse  to  put  forth  my  hand  because  I 
cannot  save  a  score  ? 

"  Take  heart,  Mr.  Dinneford.  Our  work  is  not  in  vain. 
Its  fruits  may  be  seen  all  around.  Bad  as  you  find  every 
thing,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  was.  When  our  day-school 
was  opened,  the  stench  from  the  filthy  children  who  wero 
gathered  in  was  so  great  that  the  teachers  were  nauseated. 
They  were  dirty  in  person  as  well  as  dirty  in  their  cloth 
ing.  This  would  not  do.  There  was  no  hope  of  moral 
purity  while  such  physical  impurity  existed.  So  the 
mission  set  up  baths,  and  made  every  child  go  in  and 
thoroughly  wash  his  body.  Then  they  got  children's 
clothing — new  and  eld — from  all  possible  sources,  and 
put  clean  garments  on  their  little  scholars.  From  the 
moment  they  were  washed  and  cleanly  clad,  a  new  and 
better  spirit  came  upon  them.  They  were  more  orderly 
and  obedient,  and  more  teachable.  There  was,  or  seemed 
to  be,  a  tenderer  quality  in  their  voices  as  they  sang  their 
hymns  of  praise." 

Just  then  there  came  a  sudden  outcry  and  a  confusion 
of  voices  from  the  street.  Mr.  Dinneford  arose  quickly 
and  went  to  the  window.  A  man,  apparently  drunk  and 
in  a  rage,  was  holding  a  boy  tightly  gripped  by  the  collar 
with  one  hand  and  cuffing  him  about  the  head  and  face 
with  the  other. 

"  It's  that  miserable  Blind  Jake !"  said  Mr.  Paulding. 

Li  great  excitement,  Mr.  Dinneford  threw  up  the  win 
dow  and  called  for  the  police.  At  this  the  man  stopped 
24* 


282  CAST  ADRIFT. 

beating  the  boy,  but  swore  at  him  terribly,  his  sightless 
eyes  rolling  and  his  face  distorted  in  a  frightful  way. 
A  policeman  who  was  not  far  off  came  now  upon  the 
scene. 

"  What's  all  this  about?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"  Jake's  drunk  again,  that's  the  row,"  answered  a  voica 

"  Lock  him  up,  lock  him  up !"  cried  two  or  three  from 
the  crowd. 

An  expression  of  savage  defiance  came  into  the  face  of 
the  blind  man,  and  he  moved  his  arms  and  clenched  his 
fist  like  one  who  was  bent  on  desperate  resistance.  He 
was  large  and  muscular,  and,  now  that  he  was  excited  by 
drink  and  bad  passions,  had  a  look  that  was  dangerous. 

"  Go  home  and  behave  yourself,"  said  the  policeman, 
not  caring  to  have  a  single-handed  tussle  with  the  human 
savage,  whose  strength  and  desperate  character  he  well 
knew. 

Blind  Jake,  as  he  was  called,  stood  for  a  few  moments 
half  defiant,  growling  and  distorting  his  face  until  it 
looked  more  like  a  wild  animal's  than  a  man's,  then 
jerked  out  the  words, 

"  Where's  that  Pete?"  with  a  sound  like  the  crack  of  a 
whip. 

The  boy  he  had  been  beating  in  his  drunken  fury, 
and  who  did  not  seem  to  be  much  hurt,  came  forward 
from  the  crowd,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  led  him 
away. 

"  Who  is  this  blind  man  ?  I  have  seen  him  before," 
mid  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  You  may  see  him  any  day  standing  at  the  street  cor- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  283 

uers,  begging,  a  miserable-looking  object,  exciting  the 
pity  of  the  humane,  and  gathering  in  money  to  spend  in 
drunken  debauchery  at  night.  He  has  been  known  to 
bring  in  some  days  as  high  as  ten  and  sometimes  fifteen 
dollars,  all  of  which  is  wasted  in  riot  before  the  next 
morning.  He  lives  just  over  the  way,  and  night  after 
night  I  can  hear  his  howls  and  curses  and  laughter 
mingled  with  those  of  the  vile  women  with  whom  he 
herds." 

"Surely  this  cannot  be?"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  Surely  it  is,"  was  replied.  "  I  know  of  what  I  speak. 
"There  is  hardly  a  viler  wretch  in  all  our  city  than 
this  man,  who  draws  hundreds — I  might  say,  without 
exaggeration,  thousands — of  dollars  from  weak  and  ten 
der-hearted  people  every  year  to  be  spent  as  I  have  said  ; 
and  he  is  not  the  only  one.  Out  of  this  district  go  hun 
dreds  of  thieves  and  beggars  every  day,  spreading  them 
selves  over  the  city  and  gathering  in  their  harvests  from 
our  people.  I  see  them  at  the  street  corners,  coming  out 
of  yards  and  alley-gates,  skulking  near  unguarded  prem 
ises  and  studying  shop-windows.  They  are  all  impos 
tors  or  thieves.  Not  one  of  them  is  deserving  of  charity. 
He  who  gives  to  them  wastes  his  money  aad  encourages 
thieving  and  vagrancy.  One  half  of  the  successful  bur 
glaries  committed  on  dwelling-houses  are  in  consequence 
of  information  gained  by  beggars.  Servant-girls  are  lured 
away  by  old  women  who  come  in  the  guise  of  alrns- 
deekers,  and  by  well-feigned  poverty  and  a  seeming  spirit 
•>f  humble  thankfulness — often  of  pious  trust  in  God — 
win  upon  their  sympathy  and  confidence  Many  a  poor 


284  CAST  ADRIFT. 

weak  girl  has  thus  been  led  to  visit  one  of  these  pooj 
women  in  the  hope  of  doing  her  some  good,  and  many  a 
one  has  thus  been  drawn  into  evil  ways.  If  the  people 
only  understood  this  matter  as  I  understand  it,  they 
would  shut  hearts  and  hands  against  all  beggars.  I  add 
beggary  as  a  vice  to  drinking  and  policy-buying  as  the 
next  most  active  agency  in  the  work  of  making  paupers 
and  criminals." 

"  But  there  are  deserving  poor,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 
"We  cannot  shut  our  hearts  against  all  who  seek  foi 
help." 

"The  deserving  poor,"  replied  Mr.  Paulding,  "are 
never  common  beggars — never  those  who  solicit  in  the 
street  or  importune  from  house  to  house.  They  try 
always  to  help  themselves,  and  ask  for  aid  only  when  in 
great  extremity.  They  rarely  force  themselves  on  your 
attention ;  they  suffer  and  die  often  in  dumb  despair.  We 
find  them  in  these  dreary  and  desolate  cellars  and  garrets, 
sick  and  starving  and  silent,  often  dying,  and  minister  to 
them  as  best  we  can.  If  the  money  given  daily  to  idle 
and  vicious  beggars  could  be  gathered  into  a  fund  and 
dispensed  with  a  wise  Christian  charity,  it  would  do  a 
vast  amount  of  good  ;  now  it  does  only  evil." 

"  You  are  doubtless  right  in  this,"  returned  Mr.  Dinne 
ford.  "Some  one  has  said  that  to  help  the  evil  is  to  hurt 
the  good,  and  I  guess  his  saying  is  near  the  truth." 

"  If  you  help  the  vicious  and  the  idle,"  was  answered, 
"  you  simply  encourage  vice  and  idleness,  and  these  neve* 
exist  without  doing  a  hurt  to  society.  Withhold  aid,  and 
they  will  be  forced  to  work,  and  so  not  only  do  something 


CAST  ADRIFT.  285 

for  the  common  good,  but  be  kept  out  of  the  evil  ways 
;utc  which  idleness  always  leads. 

*'  So  you  see,  sir,  how  wrong  it  is  to  give  alms  to  the 
vast  crew  of  beggars  that  infest  our  cities,  and  especially 
to  the  children  who  are  sent  out  daily  to  beg  or  steal  aa 
opportunity  offers. 

"  But  there  is  another  view  of  the  case,"  continued 
Mr.  Paulding,  "that  few  consider,  and  which  would,  I 
am  sure,  arouse  the  people  to  immediate  action  if  they 
understood  it  as  I  do.  We  compare  the  nation  to  a 
great  man.  We  call  it  a  <  body  politic.'  We  speak  of 
its  head,  its  brain,  its  hands,  its  feet,  its  arteries  and  vital 
forces.  We  know  that  no  part  of  the  nation  can  be  hurt 
without  all  the  other  parts  feeling  in  some  degree  the  shock 
and  sharing  the  loss  or  suffering.  What  is  true  of  the 
great  man  of  the  nation  is  true  of  our  smaller  communi 
ties,  our  States  and  cities  and  towns.  Each  is  an  aggre 
gate  man,  and  the  health  and  well-being  of  this  man 
depend  on  the  individual  men  and  the  groups  and  societies 
of  men  by  which  it  is  constituted.  There  cannot  be  an 
unhealthy  organ  in  the  human  system  without  a  commu 
nication  of  disease  to  the  whole  body.  A  diseased  liver 
or  heart  or  lung,  a  useless  hand  or  foot,  an  ulcer  or  local 
obstruction,  cannot  exist  without  injury  and  impediment 
to  the  whole.  In  the  case  of  a  malignant  ulcer,  how 
soon  the  blood  gets  poisoned  ! 

"  Now,  here  is  a  malignant  ulcer  in  the  body  politic  of 
<mr  city.  Is  it  possible,  do  you  think,  for  it  to  exist,  and 
in  the  virulent  condition  we  find  it,  and  not  poison  the 
blood  of  our  whole  community?  Moral  and  spiritual 


286  CAST  ADRIFT. 

laws  are  as  unvarying  in  their  action,  out  of  natural 
sight  though  they  be,  as  physical  laws.  Evil  and  good 
are  as  positive  entities  as  fire,  and  destroy  or  consume  as? 
surely.  As  certainly  as  an  ulcer  poisons  with  its  malig 
nant  ichor  this  blood  that  visits  every  part  of  the  body, 
so  surely  is  this  ulcer  poisoning  every  part  of  our  com 
munity.  Any  one  who  reflects  for  a  moment  will  see 
that  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  From  this  moral  ulcer 
there  flows  out  daily  and  nightly  an  ichor  as  destructive 
as  that  from  a  cancer.  Here  theft  and  robbery  and  mur 
der  have  birth,  ,  nurture  and  growth  until  full  formed 
and  organized,  and  then  go  forth  to  plunder  and  destroy. 
The  life  and  property  of  no  citizen  is  safe  so  long  as  this 
community  exists.  It  has  its  schools  of  instruction  for 
thieves  and  housebreakers,  where  even  little  children  are 
educated  to  the  business  of  stealing  and  robbery.  Out 
from  it  go  daily  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls,  on  their  business  of  beggary,  theft  and  the  entice 
ment  of  the  weak  and  unwary  into  crime.  In  it  congre 
gate  human  vultures  and  harpies  who  absorb  most  of  the 
plunder  that  is  gained  outside,  and  render  more  brutal 
and  desperate  the  wretches  they  rob  in  comparative 
safety. 

"Let  me  show  you  how  this  is  done.  A  man  or  a 
woman  thirsting  for  liquor  will  steal  anything  to  get 
money  for  whisky.  The  article  stolen  may  be  a  coat,  a 
pair  of  boots  or  a  dress — something  worth  from  five  to 
twenty  dollars.  It  is  taken  to  one  of  these  harpies,  and  sold 
for  fifty  cents  or  a  dollar — anything  to  get  enough  for  a 
ilrunken  spree.  I  am  speaking  only  of  what  I  know. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  287 

Then,  again,  a  man  or  a  woman  gets  stupidly  drunk  in 
uiie  of  the  whisky-shops.  Before  he  or  she  is  thrown  out 
upon  the  street,  the  thrifty  liquor-seller  'goes  through' 
the  pockets  of  the  insensible  wretch,  and  confiscates  all 
he  finds.  Again,  a  vile  woman  has  robbed  one  of  her 
visitors,  and  with  the  money  in  her  pocket  goes  to  a 
dram-shop.  The  sum  may  be  ten  dollars  or  it  may  be 
two  hundred.  A  glass  or  so  unlooses  her  tongue;  she 
boasts  of  her  exploit,  and  perhaps  shows  her  booty.  Not 
once  in  a  dozen  times  will  she  take  this  booty  away.  If 
there  are  only  a  few  women  in  the  shop,  the  liquor-seller 
will  most  likely  pounce  on  her  at  once  and  get  the  money 
by  force.  There  is  no  redress.  To  inform  the  police  is  to 
give  information  against  herself.  He  may  give  her  back 
a  little  to  keep  her  quiet  or  he  may  not,  just  as  lie  feels 
about  it.  If  he  does  not  resort  to  direct  force,  he  will 
manage  in  some  other  way  to  get  the  money.  I  could 
take  you  to  the  dram-shop  of  a  man  scarcely  a  stone's 
throw  from  this  place  who  came  out  of  the  State's  prison 
less  than  four  years  ago  and  set  up  his  vile  trap  where  it 
QOW  stands.  He  is  known  to  be  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars 
to-day.  How  did  he  make  this  large  sum  ?  By  the  profits 
of  his  bar  ?  No  one  believes  this.  It  has  been  by  rob 
bing  his  drunken  and  criminal  customers  whenever  he 
could  get  them  in  his  power." 

"  I  am  oppressed  by  all  this,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford.  *'  I 
oever  dreamed  of  such  a  state  of  things." 

"  Nor  does  one  in  a  hundred  of  our  good  citizens,  who 
live  in  quiet  unconcern  with  this  pest-house  of  crime  and 
disease  in  their  midst.  And  speaking  of  disease,  let  me 


288  CAST  ADRIFT. 

give  you  another  fact  that  should  be  widely  known 
Every  obnoxious  epidemic  with  which  our  city  hits  been 
visited  in  the  last  twenty  years  has  originated  here — ship 
fever,  relapsing  fever  and  small-pox — and  so,  getting  a 
lodgment  in  the  body  politic,  have  poured  their  malig 
nant  poisons  into  the  blood  and  diseased  the  whole. 
Death  has  found  his  way  into  the  homes  of  hundreds  of 
our  best  citizens  through  the  door  opened  for  him  here." 

"  Can  this  be  so  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"It  is  just  as  I  have  said,"  was  replied.  "And  how 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Whether  men  take  heed  or  not, 
the  evil  they  permit  to  lie  at  their  doors  will  surely  do 
them  harm.  Ignorance  of  a  statute,  a  moral  or  a  physi 
cal  law  gives  no  immunity  from  consequence  if  the  law 
be  transgressed — a  fact  that  thousands  learn  every  year 
to  their  sorrow.  There  are  those  who  would  call  this 
spread  of  disease,  originating  here,  all  over  our  city,  a 
judgment  from  God,  to  punish  the  people  for  that  neglect 
and  indifference  which  has  left  such  a  hell  as  this  in 
their  midst.  I  do  not  so  read  it.  God  has  no  pleasure 
in  punishments  and  retributions.  The  evil  comes  not 
from  him.  It  enters  through  the  door  we  have  left  open, 
just  as  a  thief  enters  our  dwellings,  invited  through  our 
neglect  to  make  the  fastenings  sure.  It  comes  under 
the  operations  of  a  law  as  unvarying  as  any  law  in 
physics.  And  so  long  as  we  have  this  epidemic-breeding 
district  in  the  very  heart  of  our  city,  we  must  expect  to 
reap  our  periodical  harvests  of  disease  and  death.  What 
il  is  to  be  next  year,  or  the  next,  none  can  tell." 

'«  Does  not  your  perpetual  contact  with  all  this  give 


CAST  ADHIFT. 

four  mind  an  unhealthy  tone — a  disposition  to  magnify 
its  disastrous  consequences?"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 

The  missionary  dropped  his  eyes.  The  flush  and  ani 
mation  went  out  of  his  face. 

"  I  leave  you  to  judge  for  yourself,"  he  answered,  aftei 
a  brief  silence,  and  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  a  feeling  of 
disappointment.  "  You  have  the  fact  before  you  in  the 
board  of  health,  prison,  almshouse,  police,  house  of 
refuge,  mission  and  other  reports  that  are  made  every 
year  to  the  people.  If  they  hear  not  these,  neither  will 
they  believe,  though  one  rose  from  the  dead." 

"All  is  too  dreadfully  pylpable  for  unbelief,"  returned 
Mr.  Dinneford.  "  I  only  expressed  a  passing  thought." 

"  My  mind  may  take  an  unhealthy  tone — does  often, 
without  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Paulding.  "  I  wonder,  some 
times,  that  I  can  keep  my  head  clear  and  my  purposes 
steady  amid  all  this  moral  and  physical  disorder  and  suf 
fering.  But  exaggeration  of  either  this  evil  or  its  conse 
quences  is  impossible.  The  half  can  never  be  told." 

Mr.  Dinneford  rose  to  go.  As  he  did  so,  two  little 
Italian  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  not  over  eight  years  oi 
age,  tired,  hungry,  pinched  and  starved-lookiug  little 
creatures,  the  boy  with  a  harp  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  the  girl  carrying  a  violin,  went  past  on  the  other 
side. 

"  Where  in  the  world  do  all  of  these  little  wretches 
come  from  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  They  are  swarm- 
Ing  our  streets  of  late.  Yesterday  I  saw  a  child  who 
could  not  be  over  two  years  of  age  tinkling  her  triangle, 
while  an  older  boy  and  girl  were  playing  on  a  harp  an<J 


290  CAST  ADRIFT. 

violin.  She  seemed  so  cold  and  tired  that  it  made  me 
sad  to  look  at  her.  There  is  something  wrong  about 
this." 

"  Something  very  wrong,"  answered  the  missionary. 
"  Doubtless  you  think  these  children  are  brought  here  by 
their  parents  or  near  relatives.  No  such  thing.  Most 
of  them  are  slaves.  I  speak  advisedly.  The  slave-trade 
is  not  yet  dead.  Its  abolition  on  the  coast  of  Africa  did 
not  abolish  the  cupidity  that  gave  it  birth.  And  the 
'  coolie '  trade,  'one  of  its  new  forms,  is  not  confined  to  the 
East." 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  for  your  meaning,"  said  Mr.  Dinue- 
ford. 

"  I  am  not  surprised.  The  new  slave-trade,  which  has 
been  carried  on  with  a  secresy  that  is  only  now  beginning 
to  attract  attention,  has  its  source  of  supply  in  Southern 
[taly,  from  which  large  numbers  of  children  are  drawn 
every  year  and  brought  to  this  country. 

"  Th£  headquarters  of  this  trade — cruel  enough  in  some 
of  its  features  to  bear  comparison  with  the  African  slave- 
trade  itself — are  in  New  York.  From  this  city  agents 
are  sent  out  to  Southern  Italy  every  year,  where  little  in 
telligence  and  great  poverty  exist.  These  agents  tell 
grand  stories  of  the  brilliant  prospects  offered  to  the 
young  in  America.  Let  n.e  now  read  to  you  from  the 
published  testimony  of  one  who  has  made  a  thorough  in 
vestigation  of  this  nefarious  business,  so  that  you  may  get 
n  clear  comprehension  of  its  extent  and  iniquity. 

"  He  says :  « One  of  these  agents  will  approach  the  father 
if  <i  family,  and  after  commenting  upon  the  beauty  of  hia 


CAST  ADRIFT.  291 

children,  will  tell  him  that  his  boys  "  should  be  sent  at 
once  to  America,  where  they  must  in  time  become  rich/' 
"There  are  no  poor  in  America."  " The  children  should 
go  when  young,  so  that  they  may  grow  up  with  the  peo 
ple  and  the  better  acquire  the  language."  "  None  are  too 
young  or  too  old  to  go  to  America."  The  fathei  of 
course,  has  not  the  means  to  go  himself  or  to  send  his 
Children  to  this  delightful  country.  The  agent  then 
offers  to  take  the  children  to  America,  and  to  pay  forty 
or  fifty  dollars  to  the  father  upon  his  signing  an  inden 
ture  abandoning  all  claims  upon  them.  He  often,  also, 
promises  to  pay  a  hundred  or  more  at  the  end  of  a  year, 
but,  of  course  never  does  it. 

'* '  After  the  agent  has  collected  a  sufficient  numbei  of 
children,  they  are  all  supplied  with  musical  instruments, 
and  the  trip  on  foot  through  Switzerland  and  France 
begins.  They  are  generally  shipped  to  Genoa,  and  often 
to  Marseilles,  and  accomplish  the  remainder  of  the  jour 
ney  to  Havre  or  Calais  by  easy  stages  from  village  to 
village.  Thus  they  become  a  paying  investment  from  the 
beginning.  This  journey  occupies  the  greater  portion  of 
the  summer  months;  and  after  a  long  trip  in  the  steer 
age  of  a  sailing-vessel,  the  unfortunate  children  land  at 
Castle  Garden.  As  the  parents  never  hear  from  them 
again,  they  do  not  know  whether  they  are  doing  well 
or  not. 

"  *  They  are  too  young  and  ignorant  to  know  how  to 
get  themselves  delivered  from  oppression ;  they  do  not 
epeak  our  language,  and  find  little  or  no  sympathy  among 
the  people  whom  they  annoy.  They  are  thus  left  to  the 


292  ,  CAST  ADRIFT. 

mercy  :>f  their  masters,  who  treat  them  brutally,  and 
apparently  without  fear  of  the  law  or  any  of  its  officers. 

-"They  are  crowded  into  small,  ill-ventilated,  uncarpet- 
ed  rooms,  eighteen  or  twenty  in  each,  and  pass  the  nighl 
on  the  floor,  with  only  a  blanket  to  protect  them  from  the 
severity  of  the  weather.  In  the  mornings  they  are  fed 
by  their  temporary  guardian  with  maccaroni,  served  in 
the  filthiest  manner  in  a  large  open  dish  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  after  which  they  are  turned  out  into  the  streets 
to  beg  or  steal  until  late  at  night. 

" '  More  than  all  this,  when  the  miserable  little  outcasts 
return  to  their  cheerless  quarters,  they  are  required  to  de 
liver  every  cent  which  they  have  gathered  during  the  day ; 
and  if  the  same  be  deemed  insufficient,  the  children  are 
carefully  searched  and  soundly  beaten. 

" '  The  children  are  put  through  a  kind  of  training  in 
the  arts  of  producing  discords  on  their  instruments,  and 
of  begging,  in  the  whoJe  of  which  the  cruelty  of  the  mas 
ters  and  the  stolid  submission  of  the  pupils  are  the  pre 
dominant  features.  The  worst  part  of  all  is  that  the 
children  become  utterly  unfitted  for  any  occupation  ex 
cept  vagrancy  and  theft.' 

"  You  have  the  answer  to  your  question,  '  Where  do 
all  these  little  wretches  come  from  ?' "  said  the  missionary 
as  he  laid  aside  the  paper  from  which  he  had  been  read 
ing.  "  Poor  little  slaves !" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

EDITH'S  life,  as  we  Lave  seen,  became  lost,  so  to 
in  charities.  Her  work  lay  chiefly  with  children. 
She  was  active  in  mission-schools  and  in  two  or  three 
homes  for  friendless  little  ones,  and  did  much  to  extend 
their  sphere  of  usefulness.  Her  garments  were  plain  and 
sombre,  her  fair  young  face  almost  colorless,  and  her  as 
pect  so  nun-like  as  often  to  occasion  remark. 

Her  patience  and  tender  ways  with  poor  little  children, 
especially  with  the  youngest,  were  noticed  by  all  who 
were  associated  with  her.  Sometimes  she  would  show 
unusual  interest  in  a  child  just  brought  to  one  of  the 
homes,  particularly  if  it  were  a  boy,  and  only  two  or 
three  years  old.  She  would  hover  about  it  and  ask  it 
questions,  and  betray  an  eager  concern  that  caused  a  mo 
ment's  surprise  to  those  who  noticed  her.  Often,  at  such 
times,  the  pale  face  would  grow  warm  with  the  flush  of 
blood  sent  out  by  her  quicker  heartbeats,  and  her  eyes 
would  have  a  depth  of  expression  and  a  brightness  that 
made  her  beauty  seem  the  reflection  of  some  divine  be 
atitude.  Now  and  then  it  was  observed  that  her  man 
ner  with  these  little  waifs  and  cast-adrifts  that  were  gath 
ered  in  from  the  street  had  in  it  an  expression  of  pain,  thai 
her  eyes  looked  at  them  sadly,  sometimes  tearfully.  Often 
she  came  with  light  feet  and  a  manner  almost  cheery,  to 

25  »  293 


294  CAST  ADRIFT. 

go  away  with  eyes  cast  down  and  lips  set  and  curved  and 
steps  that  were  slow  and  heavy. 

Time  had  not  yet  solved  the  mystery  of  her  baby's  life 
or  death;  and  until  it  was  solved,  time  had  no  power 
to  abate  the  yearning  at  her, heart,  to  dull  the  edge  of 
anxious  suspense  or  to  reconcile  her  to  a  Providence  that 
seemed  only  cruel.  In  her  daily  prayers  this  thought  of 
cruelty  in  God  often  came  in  to  hide  his  face  from  her, 
and  she  rose  from  her  knees  more  frequently  in  a  passion 
of  despairing  tears  than  comforted.  How  often  she 
pleaded  with  God,  weeping  bitter  tears,  that  he  would 
give  her  certainty  in  place  of  terrible  doubts !  Again, 
she  would  implore  his  loving  care  over  her  poor  baby, 
wherever  it  might  be. 

So  the  days  wore  on  until  nearly  three  years  had  elapsed 
since  Edith's  child  was  born. 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  but  there  were  no  busy  hands 
at  work,  made  light  by  loving  hearts,  in  the  home  of  Mr. 
Dinneford.  All  its  chambers  were  silent.  And  yet  the 
coming  anniversary  was  not  to  go  uncelebrated.  Edith's 
heart  was  full  of  interest  for  the  children  of  the  poor,  the 
lowly,  the  neglected  and  the  suffering,  whom  Christ  came 
to  save  and  to  bless.  Her  anniversary  was  to  be  spent 
with  them,  and  she  was  looking  forward  to  its  advent 
with  real  pleasure. 

"  We  have  made  provision  for  four  hundred  children," 
said  her  father.  "  The  dinner  is  to  be  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  we  must  be  there  by  nine  or  ten.  We  shall  be  busy 
enough  getting  everything  ready.  There  are  forty  tur- 
teys  to  out  up  and  four  hundred  plates  to  fill." 


CAST  ADRIFT. 

•«  And  many  willing  hands  to  do  it,"  remarked  Edith, 
with  a  quiet  smile ;  "ours  among  the  rest." 

"  You'd  better  keep  away  from  there,"  spoke  up  Mrs. 
Dinneford,  with  a  jar  in  her  voice.  "  I  don't  see  what 
possesses  you.  You  can  find  poor  little  wretches  any 
where,  if  you're  so  fond  of  them,  without  going  to  Briar 
street.  You'll  bring  home  the  small-pox  or  something 
worse." 

Neither  Edith  nor  her  father  made  any  reply,  and 
there  fell  a  silence  on  the  group  that  was  burdensome  to 
all.  Mrs.  Dinneford  felt  it  most  heavily,  and  after  the 
lapse  of  a  few  minutes  withdrew  from  the  room. 

"  A  good  dinner  to  four  hundred  hungry  children 
Borne  of  them  half  starved,"  said  Edith  as  her  mothei 
shut  the  door.  "  I  shall  enjoy  the  sight  as  much  as  they 
will  enjoy  the  feast." 

A  little  after  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Din 
neford  and  Edith  took  their  way  to  the  mission-school  in 
Briar  street.  They  found  from  fifteen  to  twenty  ladies 
and  gentlemen  already  there,  and  at  work  helping  to 
arrange  the  tables,  which  were  set  in  the  two  long  upper 
rooms.  There  were  places  for  nearly  four  hundred  chil 
dren,  and  in  front  of  each  was  an  apple,  a  cake  and  a 
biscuit,  and  between  every  four  a  large  mince  pie.  The 
forty  turkeys  were  at  the  baker's,  to  be  ready  at  a  little 
before  twelve  o'clock,  the  dinner-hour,  and  in  time  for 
the  carvers,  who  were  to  fill  the  four  hundred  plates  for 
the  expected  guests. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Edith  and  her  father  went  down  to 
the  ohapel  on  the  first  floor,  where  the  children  had 


CAST  ADRIFT. 

bled  for  the  morning  exercises,  that  were  to  continue  fo/ 
an  hour. 

Edith  had  a  place  near  the  reading-desk  where  she 
could  see  the  countenances  of  all  those  children  who 
were  sitting  side  by  side  in  row  after  row  and  filling 
every  seat  in  the  room,  a  restless,  eager,  expectant  crowd, 
half  disciplined  and  only  held  quiet  by  the  order  and 
authority  they  had  learned  to  respect.  Such  faces  as 
she  looked  into  !  In  scarcely  a  single  one  could  she  find 
anything  of  true  childhood,  and  they  were  so  marred  by 
suffering  and  evil !  In  vain  she  turned  from  one  tf 
another,  searching  for  a  sweet,  happy  look  or  a  face  un 
marked  by  pain  or  vice  or  passion.  It  made  her  heart 
ache.  Some  were  so  hard  and  brutal  in  their  expression, 
and  so  mature  in  their  aspect,  that  they  seemed  like  the 
faces  of  debased  men  on  which  a  score  of  years,  passed 
in  sensuality  and  crime,  had  cut  their  deep  deform 
ing  lines,  while  others  were  pale  and  wasted,  with  half- 
Beared  yet  defiant  eyes,  and  thin,  sharp,  enduring  lips, 
making  one  tearful  to  look  at  them.  Some  were  restlese 
as  caged  animals,  not  still  for  a  single  instant,  hands 
moving  nervously  and  bodies  swaying  to  and  fro,  while 
others  sat  stolid  and  almost  as  immovable  as  stone,  star 
ing  at  the  little  group  of  men  and  women  in  front  who 
were  to  lead  them  in  the  exercises  of  the  morning. 

At  length  one  face  of  the  many  before  her  fixed  the  eye? 
jf  Edith.  It  was  the  face  of  a  little  boy  scarcely  mort 
than  three  years  old.  He  was  only  a  few  benches  iron 
her,  and  had  been  hidden  from  view  by  a  larger  boy  jusl 
'n  front  of  him.  When  Edith  first  noticed  this  child,  he 


CAST  ADRIFT.  297 

*MS  looking  at  her  intently  from  a  pair  of  large,  clear 
brown  eyes  that  had  in  them  a  wistful,  hungry  expression. 
His  hair,  thick  and  wavy,  had  been  smoothly  brushed  by 
some  careful  hand,  and  fell  back  from  a  large  forehead, 
the  whiteness  and  smoothness  of  which  was  noticeable  in 
contrast  with  those  around  him.  His  clothes  were  clean 
and  good. 

As  Edith  turned  again  and  again  to  the  face  of  this 
child,  the  youngest  perhaps  in  the  room,  her  heart  began 
to  move  toward  him.  Always  she  found  him  with  hia 
great  earnest  eyes  upon  her.  There  seemed  at  last  to  be 
a  mutual  fascination.  His  eyes  seemed  never  to  move 
from  her  face ;  and  when  she  tried  to  look  away  and  get 
interested  in  other  faces,  almost  unconsciously  to  herself 
her  eyes  would  wander  back,  and  she  would  find  herself 
gazing  at  the  child. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mr.  Paulding  announced  that  the 
exercises  for  the  morning  would  begin,  when  silence  fell 
on  the  restless  company  of  undisciplined  children.  A 
hymn  was  read,  and  then,  as  the  leader  struck  the  tune, 
out  leaped  the  voices  of  these  four  hundred  children,  each 
singing  with  a  strange  wild  abandon,  many  of  them  sway 
ing  their  heads  and  bodies  in  time  to  the  measure.  As 
the  first  lines  of  the  hymn, 

"  Jesus,  gentle  Shepherd,  lead  us, 
Much  we  need  thy  tender  care," 

awelled  up  from  the  lips  of  those  poor  neglected  chil 
dren,  the  eyes  of  Edith  grew  blind  with  tears. 

After  a  prayer  was  offered  up,  familiar  addresses,  full 


298  CAST  ADRIFT. 

of  kindness  and  encouragement,  were  made  to  the  chD 
dren,  interspersed  with  singing  and  other  appropriate  ex 
ercises.  These  were  continued  for  an  hour.  At  their 
close  the  children  were  taken  up  stairs  to  the  two  long 
school-rooms,  in  which  their  dinner  was  to  be  served. 
Here  were  Christmas  trees  loaded  with  presents,  wreaths 
of  evergreen  on  the  walls  and  ceilings,  and  illuminated 
texts  hung  here  and  there,  and  everything  was  provided 
to  make  the  day's  influence  as  beautiful  and  pleasant  as 
possible  to  the  poor  little  ones  gathered  in  from  cheerless 
and  miserable  homes. 

Meantime,  the  carvers  had  been  very  busy  at  work  on 
the  forty  turkeys — large,  tender  fellows,  full  of  dressing 
and  cooked  as  nicely  as  if  they  had  been  intended  for  a 
dinner  of  aldermen — cutting  them  up  and  filling  the 
plates.  There  was  no  stinting  of  the  supply.  Each 
plate  was  loaded  with  turkey,  dressing,  potatoes  that  had 
been  baked  with  the  fowls,  and  a  heaping  spoonful  of 
cranberry  sauce,  and  as  fast  as  filled  conveyed  to  the 
tables  by  the  lady  attendants,  who  had  come,  many  of 
them,  from  elegant  homes,  to  assist  the  good  missionary's 
wife  and  the  devoted  teachers  of  the  mission-school  in 
this  labor  of  love.  And  so,  when  the  four  hundred 
hungry  children  came  streaming  into  the  rooms,  they 
found  tables  spread  with  such  bounty  as  the  eyes  of  many 
~f  them  had  never  looked  upon,  and  kind  gentlemen  and 
beautiful  ladies  already  there  to  place  them  at  these  tables 
and  serve  them  while  eating. 

It  was  curious  and  touching,  and  ludicrous  sometimes, 
tp  Bee  the  many  ways  in  which  the  children  accepted  this 


CAST  ADRIFT.  299 

Douutiful  supply  of  food.  A  few  pounced  upon  it  like 
hungry  dogs,  devouring  whole  platefuls  in  a  few  minutes, 
but  most  of  them  kept  a  decent  restraint  upon  themselves 
in  the  presence  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  whom 
they  could  not  but  feel  an  instinctive  respect.  Very  few 
of  them  could  use  a  fork  except  in  the  most  awkward 
manner.  Some  tried  to  cut  their  meat,  but  failing  in  the 
task,  would  seize  it  with  their  hands  and  eagerly  convey 
it  to  their  hungry  mouths.  Here  and  there  would  be 
seen  a  mite  of  a  boy  sitting  in  a  kind  of  maze  before  a 
heaped-up  dinner-plate,  his  hands,  strangers,  no  doubt,  to 
knife  or  fork,  lying  in  his  lap,  and  his  face  wearing  a  kind 
of  helpless  look.  But  he  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 
Eyes  that  were  on  the  alert  soon  saw  him ;  ready  hands 
cut  his  food,  and  a  cheery  voice  encouraged  him  to  eat. 
If  these  children  had  been  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
princes,  they  could  not  have  been  ministered  to  with  a 
more  gracious  devotion  to  their  wants  and  comfort  than 
was  shown  by  their  volunteer  attendants. 

Edith,  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  gave  her 
self  to  the  work  in  hand  with  an  interest  that  made  her 
heart  glow  with  pleasure.  She  had  lost  sight  of  the  little 
boy  in  whom  she  had  felt  so  sudden  and  strong  an  in 
terest,  and  had  been  searching  about  for  him  ever  since 
the  children  came  up  from  the  chapel.  At  last  she  saw 
him,  shut  in  and  hidden  between  two  larger  boys,  who 
were  eating  with  a  hungry  eagerness  and  forgetfulness  of 
everything  around  them  almost  painful  to  see.  He  was 
sitting  in  front  of  his  heaped-up  plate,  looking  at  the 
tempting  food,  with  his  knife  and  fork  lying  untouched 


300  CAST  ADRIFT. 

on  the  table.     There  was  a  dreamy,  half-sad,  half-be 
wildered  look  about  him. 

"  Poor  little  fellow !''  exclaimed  Edith  as  soon  as  she 
saw  him,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  behind  his  chair. 

"  Shall  I  cut  it  up  for  you  ?"  she  asked  as  she  lifted  his 
knife  and  fork  from  the  table. 

The  child  turned  almost  with  a  start,  and  looked  up  at 
her  with  a  quick  flash  of  feeling  on  his  face.  She  saw 
that  he  remembered  her. 

"  Let  me  fix  it  all  nicely,"  she  said  as  she  stooped  over 
tiim  and  commenced  cutting  up  his  piece  of  turkey.  The 
child  did  not  look  at  his  plate  while  she  cut  the  food,  but 
with  his  head  turned  kept  his  large  eyes  on  her  counte 
nance. 

"  Now  it's  all  right,"  said  Edith,  encouragingly,  as  she 
laid  the  knife  and  fork  on  his  plate,  taking  a  deep  breath 
at  the  same  time,  for  her  heart  beat  so  rapidly  that  her 
lungs  was  oppressed  with  the  inflowing  of  blood.  She 
felt,  at  the  same  time,  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to 
catch  him  up  into  her  arms  and  draw  him  lovingly  to 
her  bosom.  The  child  made  no  attempt  to  eat,  and  still 
kept  looking  at  her. 

"  Now,  my  little  man,"  she  said,  taking  his  fork  ami 
lifting  a  piece  of  the  turkey  to  his  mouth.  It  touched 
his  palate,  and  appetite  asserted  its  power  over  him ;  his 
eyes  went  down  to  his  plate  with  a  hungry  eagerness. 
Then  Edith  put  the  fork  into  his  hand,  but  he  did  not 
know  how  to  use  it,  and  made  but  awkward  attempts  to 
take  up  the  food.  • 

Mrs.  Paulding,  the  missionary's  wife,  came  by  at  the 


CAST  ADRIFT.  301 

oioraent,  and  seeing  the  child,  put  her  hand  on  him,  and 
naid,  kindly, 

"  Oh,  it's  little  Andy,"  and  passed  on. 

"  So  your  name's  Andy  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  It  was  the  first  time  Edith  had  heard 
his  voice.  It  fell  sweet  and  tender  on  her  ears,  and 
Btirred  her  heart  strangely. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

He  gave  the  name  of  a  street  she  had  never  heard  of 
Before. 

"  But  you're  not  eating  your  dinner.  Come,  take  your 
fork  just  so.  There !  that's  the  way ;"  and  Edith  took  his 
hand,  in  which  he  was  still  holding  the  fork,  and  lifted 
two  or  three  mouthfuls,  which  he  ate  with  increasing  rel 
ish.  After  that  he  needed  no  help,  and  seemed  to  forget 
in  the  relish  of  a  good  dinner  the  presence  of  Edith,  who 
soon  found  others  who  needed  her  service. 

The  plentiful  meal  was  at  last  over,  and  the  children, 
made  happy  for  one  day  at  least,  were  slowly  dispersing 
to  their  dreary  homes,  drifting  away  from  the  better 
influences  good  men  and  women  had  been  trying  10 
gather  about  them  even  for  a  little  while.  The  children 
were  beginning  to  leave  the  tables  when  Edith,  who  had 
been  busy  among  them,  remembered  the  little  boy  who 
had  so  interested  her,  and  made  her  way  to  the  place 
where  he  had  been  sitting.  But  he  was  not  there.  She 
looked  into  the  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  who  were  pressing 
toward  the  door,  but  could  not  see  the  child.  A  shadow 
of  disappointment  came  over  her  feelings,  and  a  strange 
heaviness  weighed  over  her  heart. 
26 


302  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  to  heiself.  "  1  wanted  U 
see  him  again." 

She  pressed  through  the  crowd  of  children,  and  made 
her  way  down  among  them  to  the  landing  below  and  out 
npon  the  street,  looking  this  way  and  that,  but  could  not 
see  the  child.  Then  she  returned  to  the  upper  rooms, 
out  her  search  was  in  vain.  Remembering  that  Mrs. 
Paulding  had  called  him  by  name,  she  sought  for  the 
missionary's  wife  and  made  inquiry  about  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  little  fellow  I  called  Andy  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Paulding. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  one,"  returned  Edith. 

"A  beautiful  boy,  isn't  he?" 

"  Indeed  he  is.  I  never  saw  such  eyes  in  a  child.  Who 
is  he,  Mrs.  Paulding,  and  what  is  he  doing  here?  He 
cannot  be  the  child  of  depraved  or  vicious  parents." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  is.  But  from  whence  he  came  no 
one  knows.  He  drifted  in  from  some  unknown  land  of 
sorrow  to  find  shelter  on  our  inhospitable  coast.  I  am 
Buie  that  God,  in  his  wise  providence,  sent  him  here,  for 
his  coming  was  the  means  of  saving  a  poor  debased  man 
who  is  well  worth  the  saving." 

Then  she  told  in  a  few  words  the  story  of  Andy's 
appearance  at  Mr.  Hall's  wretched  hovel  and  the  wonder 
ful  changes  that  followed — how  a  degraded  drunkard, 
seemingly  beyond  the  reach  of  hope  and  help,  had  been 
led  back  to  sobriety  and  a  life  of  honest  industry  by  the 
hand  of  a  little  child  cast  somehow  adrift  in  the  world, 
yet  guarded  and  guided  by  Him  who  does  not  lose  sight 
m  his  good  providence  of  even  a  single  sparrow. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  303 

"Who  is  this  man,  and  where  does  he  live?"  asked 
Mr.  Dinneford,  who  had  been  listening  to  Mrs.  Pauldmg'n 
hrief  recital. 

"  His  name  is  Andrew  Hall,"  was  replied. 

"Andrew  Hall!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dinneford,  with  a 
start  and  a  look  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  sir.  That  is  his  name,  and  he  is  now  living 
alone  with  the  child  of  whom  we  have  been  speaking,  not 
very  far  from  here,  but  in  a  much  better  neighborhood. 
He  brought  Andy  around  this  morning  to  let  him  enjoy 
the  day,  and  has  come  for  him,  no  doubt,  and  taken  him 
home." 

"  Give  me  the  street  and  number,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Paulding,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  with  much  repressed  ex 
citement.  "  We  will  go  there  at  once,"  he  added,  turning 
to  his  daughter. 

Edith's  face  had  become  pale,  and  her  father  felt  her 
hand  tremble  as  she  laid  it  on  his  arm. 

At  this  moment  a  man  came  up  hurriedly  to  Mrs.  Paul- 
ding,  and  said,  with  manifest  concern, 

"  Have  you  seen  Andy,  ma'am  ?  I've  been  looking 
all  over,  but  can't  find  him." 

"  He  was  here  a  little  while  ago,"  answered  the  mission 
ary's  wife.  "  We  were  just  speaking  of  him.  I  thought 
you'd  taken  him  home." 

"  Mr.  Hall !"  said  Edith's  father,  in  a  tone  of  glad  rec 
ognition,  extending  his  hand  at  the  same  time. 

"  Mr.  Dinneford !"  The  two  men  stood  looking  at  each 
other,  with  shut  lips  and  faces  marked  by  intense  feeling, 
each  grasping  tightly  the  other's  hand. 


304  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  It  is  going  to  be  well  with  you  once  more,  my  dea/ 
old  friend !"  said  Mr.  Dmneford. 

"  God  being  my  helper,  yes !"  was  the  firm  reply.  "  He 
has  taken  my  feet  out  of  the  miry  clay  and  set  them  on 
firm  ground,  and  I  have  promised  him  that  they  shall  not 
go  down  into  the  pit  again.  But  Andy !  I  must  look  for 
him." 

And  he  was  turning  away. 

"  I  saw  Andy  a  little  while  ago,"  now  spoke  up  a  woman 
who  had  come  in  from  the  street  and  heard  the  last  re 
mark. 

"  Where?"  asked  Mr.  Hall. 

"  A  girl  had  him,  and  she  was  going  up  Briar  street  on 
the  run,  fairly  dragging  Andy  after  her.  She  looked  like 
Pinky  Swett,  and  I  do  believe  it  was  her.  She's  been  in 
prison,  you  know ;  but  I  guess  her  time's  up." 

Mr.  Hall  stopped  to  hear  no  more,  but  ran  down  stairs 
and  up  the  street,  going  in  the  direction  said  to  have  been 
taken  by  the  woman.  Edith  sat  down,  white  and  faint. 

"Pinky  Swett!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Paulding.  "Why, 
that's  the  girl  who  had  the  child  you  were  looking  after  a 
long  time  ago,  Mr.  Dinneford." 

"  Yes ;  I  remember  the  name,  and  no  doubt  this  is  the 
very  child  she  had  in  her  possession  at  that  time.  Are 
you  sure  she  has  been  in  prison  for  the  last  two  years  ?" 
and  Mr.  Dinneford  turned  to  the  woman  who  had  men- 
tioned  her  name. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir ;  I  remember  all  about  it,"  answered  the 
woman.  "  She  stole  a  man's  pocket-book,  and  got  two 
years  foi  it." 


CAST  ADRIFT  305 

"You  know  her?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed !  And  she's  a  bad  cne,  I  can  tell  you. 
She  had  somebody's  baby  round  in  Grubb's  court,  and  it 
tfas  'most  starved  to  death.  I  heard  it  said  it  belonged  to 
gome  of  the  big  people  up  town,  and  that  she  was  getting 
hush-money  for  it,  but  I  don't  know  as  it  was  true.  Peo 
ple  will  talk." 

"  Do  you  know  what  became  of  that  baby  ?"  asked 
Edith,  with  ill-repressed  excitement.  Her  face  was  still 
very  pale,  and  her  forehead  contracted  as  by  pain. 

"  No,  ma'am.  The  police  came  round  asking  questions, 
and  the  baby  wasn't  seen  in  Grubb's  court  after  that." 

"  You  think  it  was  Pinky  Swett  whom  you  saw  just 
now  ?" 

"  I'm  dead  sure  of  it,  sir,"  turning  to  Mr.  Dinneford, 
who  had  asked  the  question. 

"  And  you  are  certain  it  was  the  little  boy  named  Andy 
that  she  had  with  her  ?" 

"  I'm  as  sure  as  death,  sir." 

«  Did  he  look  frightened  ?" 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  sir — scared  as  could  be.  *He  pulled 
back  all  his  might,  but  she  whisked  him  along  as  if  he'd 
been  only  a  chicken.  I  saw  them  go  round  the  corner  of 
Clayton  street  like  the  wind." 

Mr.  Paulding  now  joined  them,  and  became  advised  of 
what  had  happened.  He  looked  very  grave. 

"  We  shall  find  the  little  boy,"  he  said.  "  He  cannot 
be  concealed  by  this  wretched  woman  as  the  baby  was ; 
he  is  too  old  for  that.  The  police  will  ferret  him  out. 
But  I  am  greatly  concerned  for  Mr.  Hall.  That  child  is 

26*  U 


306  CAST  ADHIFT. 

the  bond  which  holds  him  at  safe  anchorage.  Break  thia 
bond,  and  he  may  drift  to  sea  again.  I  must  go  after 
him." 

And  the  missionary  hurried  away. 

For  over  an  hour  Edith  and  her  father  remained  at  the 
miaiou  waiting  for  some  news  of  little  Andy.  At  the 
end  cf  this  time  Mr.  Paulding  came  back  with  word  that 
nothing  could  be  learned  beyond  the  fact  that  a  woman 
with  a  child  answering  to  the  description  of  Andy  had 
been  seen  getting  into  an  up-town  car  on  Clayton  street 
about  one  o'clock.  She  came,  it  was  said  by  two  or  three 
who  professed  to  have  seen  her,  from  the  direction  of 
Briar  street.  The  chief  of  police  had  been  seen,  and  he 
had  already  telegraphed  to  all  the  stations.  Mr.  Hall 
was  at  the  central  station  awaiting  the  result. 

After  getting  a  promise  from  Mr.  Paulding  to  send  a 
messenger  the  moment  news  of  Andy  was  received,  Mr. 
Diimeford  and  Edith  returned  home. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AS  Edith  glanced  up,  on  arriving  bef*  ire  their  resi 
dence,  she  saw  for  a  moment  her  mother's  face  at 
the  window.  It  vanished  like  the  face  of  a  ghost,  but 
not  quick  enough  to  prevent  Edith  from  seeing  that  it 
was  almost  colorless  and  had  a  scared  look.  They  did 
not  find  Mrs.  Dinneford  in  the  parlor  when  they  came  in, 
nor  did  she  make  her  appearance  until  an  hour  after 
ward,  when  dinner  was  announced.  Then  it  was  plain 
to  both  her  husband  and  daughter  that  something  had 
occurred  since  morning  to  trouble  her  profoundly.  The 
paleness  noticed  by  Edith  at  the  window  and  the  scared 
look  remained.  Whenever  she  turned  her  eyes  suddenly 
upon  her  mother,  she  found  her  looking  at  her  with  a 
strange,  searching  intentness.  It  was  plain  that  Mrs. 
Dinneford  saw  in  Edith's  face  as  great  a  change  and  mys 
tery  as  Edith  saw  in  hers,  and  the  riddle  of  her  husband's 
countenance,  so  altered  since  morning,  was  harder  even 
than  Edith's  to  solve. 

A  drearier  Christmas  dinner,  and  one  in  which  less 
food  was  taken  by  those  who  ate  it,  could  hardly  have 
been  found  in  the  city.  The  Briar-street  feast  was  one  of 
joy  and  gladness  in  comparison.  The  courses  came  and 
went  with  unwonted  quickness,  plates  bearing  off  the  almost 
mtasted  viands  which  they  had  received.  Scarcely  a 

307 


303  CAST  ADRIFT. 

word  was  spoken  during  the  meal.  Mrs.  Dinnefcrd  asked 
no  question  about  the  dinner  in  Briar  street,  and  no  re 
mark  was  made  about  it  by  either  Edith  or  her  father. 
In  half  the  usual  time  this  meal  was  ended.  Mrs.  Dinne- 
ibrd  left  the  table  first,  and  retired  to  her  own  room.  Aa 
she  did  so,  in  taking  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket, 
she  drew  out  a  letter,  which  fell  unnoticed  by  her  upon 
the  floor.  Mr.  Dinneford  was  about  calling  her  atten 
tion  to  it  when  Edith,  who  saw  his  purpose  and  was  near 
enough  to  touch  his  hand,  gave  a  quick  signal  to  forbear. 
The  instant  her  mother  was  out  of  the  room  she  sprang 
from  her  seat,  and  had  just  secured  the  letter  when  the 
dining-room  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Mrs.  Dinneford 
came  in,  white  and  frightened.  She  saw  the  letter  in 
Edith's  hand,  and  with  a  cry  like  some  animal  in  pain 
leaped  upon  her  and  tried  to  wrest  it  from  her  grasp. 
But  Edith  held  it  in  her  closed  hand  with  a  desperate 
grip,  defying  all  her  mother's  efforts  to  get  possession  of 
it.  In  her  wild  fear  and  anger  Mrs.  Dinneford  ex 
claimed, 

"  I'll  kill  you  if  you  don't  give  me  that  letter !"  and 
actually,  in  her  blind  rage,  reached  toward  the  table  as 
if  to  get  a  knife.  Mr.  Dinneford,  who  had  been  for  a 
noment  stupefied,  now  started  forward,  and  throwing  his 
arms  about  his  wife,  held  her  tightly  until  Edith  could 
escape  with  the  letter,  not  releasing  her  until  the  sound 
of  his  daughter's  retiring  feet  were  no  longer  heard.  By 
this  time  she  had  ceased  to  struggle ;  and  when  he  released 
her,  she  stood  still  in  a  passive,  dull  sort  of  way,  her  arms 
Silling  heavily  to  her  sides.  He  looked  into  her  face, 


CAST  ADRIFT.  80S 

and  saw  that  the  eyes  were  staring  wildly  and  the  muscles 
in  a  convulsive  quiver.  Then  starting  and  reaching  out 
helplessly,  she  fell  forward.  Catching  her  in  his  arms, 
Mr.  Dinneford  drew  her  toward  a  sofa,  but  she  was  dead 
before  he  could  raise  her  from  the  floor. 

When  Edith  reached  her  room,  she  shut  and  locked 
the  door.  Then  all  her  excitement  died  away.  She  sat 
down,  and  opening  the  letter  with  hands  that  gave  no 
sign  of  inward  agitation  or  suspense,  read  it  through.  It 
was  dated  at  Havana,  and  was  as  follows : 

"  MRS.  HELEN  DINNEFORD  :  M.A  DAM — My  physician 
t  *lls  me  that  I  cannot  live  a  week — may  die  at  any  mo 
ment  ;  and  I  am  afraid  to  die  with  one  unconfessed  and 
unatoned  sin  upon  my  conscience — a  sin  into  which  I  waa 
led  by  you,  the  sharer  of  my  guilt.  I  need  not  go  into 
particulars.  You  know  to  what  I  refei  -the  ruin  of  an 
innocent,  confiding  young  man,  you?  daughter's  hus 
band.  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  lost  his  reason  !  But  I 
have  information  that  his  insanity  has  taken  on  tho 
mildest  form,  and  that  his  friends  are  only  keeping  him 
at  the  hospital  until  they  can  get  a  pardon  from  the  gov 
ernor.  It  is  in  your  power  and  mine  to  establish  his  in 
nocence  at  once.  I  leave  you  a  single  mouth  in  which  to 
do  this,  and  at  the  same  time  screen  yourself,  if  that  be 
possible.  If,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  it  is  not  done,  then 
a  copy  of  this  letter,  with  a  circumstantial  statement  of 
the  whole  iniquitous  affair,  will  be  placed  in  the  hands  of 
your  husband,  and  another  in  the  hands  of  your  daugh 
ter.  I  have  so  provided  for  this  that  no  failure  can  take 


310  CAST  ADRIFT. 

place.     So  be  warned  and  make  the  innocence  of  Georg* 
Granger  as  clear  as  noonday. 

"LLOYD  FREELING." 

Twice  Edith  read  this  letter  through  before  a  sign  of 
emotion  was  visible.  She  looked  about  the  room,  down 
at  herself,  and  again  at  the  letter. 

"  Am  I  really  awake  ?"  she  said,  beginning  to  tremble. 
Then  the  glad  but  terrible  truth  grappled  with  her  con 
victions,  and  through  the  wild  struggle  and  antago 
nism  of  feeling  that  shook  her  soul  there  shone  into 
her  face  a  joy  so  great  that  the  pale  features  grew  almost 
radiant. 

"Innocent!  innocent!"  fell  from  her  lips,  over  which 
crept  a  smile  of  ineffable  love.  But  it  faded  out  quickly, 
and  left  in  its  place  a  shadow  of  ineffable  pain. 

"  Innocent !  innocent !"  she  repeated,  now  clasping  hei 
hands  and  lifting  her  eyes  heavenward.  "  Dear  Lord 
and  Saviour !  My  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness !  Inno 
cent!  Oh,  let  it  be  made  as  clear  as  noonday!  And 
my  baby,  Lord — oh,  my  baby,  my  baby !  Give  him  back 
to  me !" 

She  fell  forward  upon  her  bed,  kneeling,  her  face  hid 
den  among  the  pillows,  trembling  and  sobbing. 

'*  Edith  !  Edith !"  came  the  agitated  voice  of  her  father 
from  without.  She  rose  quickly,  and  opening  the  door, 
saw  his  pale,  convulsed  countenance 

"  Quick !  quick  !  Your  mother !'  and  Mr.  Dinneford 
turned  and  ran  down  stairs,  she  following.  On  reaching 
the  dining-room,  Edith  found  her  mother  lying  on  a  sofa, 


CAST  AURIFT.  311 

with  the  servants  about  her  in  great  excitement     Better 
than  any  one  did  she  comprehend  what  she  saw. 

"  Dead,"  fell  almost  coldly  from  her  lips. 

"I  have  sent  for  Dr.  Kadcliffe.  It  may  only  be  a 
fainting  fit,"  answered  Mr.  Dinneford. 

Edith  stood  a  little  way  off  from  her  mother,  as  if  held 
from  personal  contact  by  an  invisible  barrier,  and  looked 
upon  her  ashen  face  without  any  sign  of  emotion. 

"  Dead,  and  better  so,"  she  said,  in  an  undertone  heard 
only  by  her  father. 

"  My  child  !  don't,  don't !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dinneford 
in  a  deprecating  whisper. 

"  Dead,  and  better  so,"  she  repeated,  firmly. 

While  the  servants  chafed  the  hands  and  feet  of  Mrs. 
Dinneford,  and  did  what  they  could  in  their  confused  way 
to  bring  her  back  to  life,  Edith  stood  a  little  way  off", 
apparently  undisturbed  by  what  she  saw,  and  not  once 
touching  her  mother's  body  or  offering  a  suggestion  to 
the  bewildered  attendants. 

When  Dr.  Radcliffe  came  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Dinneford, 
all  saw  by  his  countenance  that  he  believed  her  dead 
A  careful  examination  proved  the  truth  of  his  first  im 
pression.  She  was  done  with  life  in  this  world. 

As  to  the  cause  of  her  death,  the  doctor,  gathering 
.vhat  he  could  from  her  husband,  pronounced  it  heart 
disease.  The  story  told  outside  was  this — so  the  doctor 
gave  it,  and  so  it  was  understood :  Mrs.  Dinneford  was 
Bitting  at  the  table  when  her  head  was  seen  to  sink  for 
ward,  and  before  any  one  could  get  to  her  she  was  dead. 
It  was  not  so  stated  to  him  by  either  Mr.  Dinneford  01 


312  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Edith,  but  lie  was  a  prudent  man,  and  careful  of  the  good 
fame  of  his  patients.  Family  affairs  he  held  as  sacred 
trusts.  Well  he  knew  that  there  had  been  a  tragedy  in 
this  home — a  tragedy  for  which  he  was  in  part,  he  feared, 
responsible ;  and  he  did  not  care  to  look  into  it  too  closely 
But  of  all  that  was  involved  in  this  tragedy  he  really 
knew  little.  Social  gossip  had  its  guesses  at  the  truth 
often  not  very  remote,  and  he  was  familiar  with  these, 
believing  little  or  much  as  it  suited  him. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Edith's  father,  on  seeing  the 
letter  of  Lloyd  Freeling,  echoed  his  daughter's  words, 
"  Better  so !" 

Not  a  tear  was  shed  on  the  grave  of  Mrs.  Dinneford. 
Husband  and  daughter  saw  her  .body  carried  forth  and 
buried  out  of  sight  with  a  feeling  of  rejection  and  a  sense  of 
relief.  Death  had  no  power  to  soften  their  hearts  toward 
her.  Charity  had  no  mantle  broad  enough  to  cover  hei 
wickedness ;  filial  love  was  dead,  and  the  good  heart  of 
her  husband  turned  away  at  rememb»<mce  with  a  shud 
der  of  horror. 

Yes,  it  was  "better  so !"  They  had  no  grief,  but  thank 
fulness,  that  she  was  dead. 

On  the  morning  after  the  funeral  there  came  a  letter 
from  Havana  addressed  to  Mr.  Dinneford.  It  was  from 
the  man  Freeling.  In  it  he  related  circumstantially  all 
the  readei  knows  about  the  conspiracy  to  destroy  Gran- 
ger.  The  letter  enclosed  an  affidavit  made  by  Freeling. 
and  duly  attested  by  the  American  consul,  in  which  he 
stated  explicitly  that  all  the  forgeries  were  made  by  him- 
jplf.  and  that  George  Granger  was  entirely  ignorant  nf 


CAST  ADRIFT.  313 

the  character  of  the  paper  he  had  endorsed  ^ith  the  name 
of  the  firm. 

Since  the  revelation  made  to  Edith  by  Freeling's  letter 
to  her  mother,  all  the  repressed  love  of  years,  never  dead 
nor  diminished,  but  only  chained,  held  down,  covered 
over,  shook  itself  free  from  bonds  and  the  wrecks  and 
debris  of  crushed  hopes.  It  filled  her  heart  with  an  agony 
of  fullness.  Her  first  passionate  impulse  was  to  go  to  him 
and  throw  herself  into  his  arms.  But  a  chilling  thought 
came  with  the  impulse,  and  sent  all  the  outgoing  heart 
beats  back.  She  was  no  longer  the  wife  of  George  Gran 
ger.  In  a  weak  hour  she  had  yielded  to  the  importunities 
of  her  father,  and  consented  to  an  application  for  divorce. 
No,  she  was  no  longer  the  wife  of  George  Granger.  She 
had  no  right  to  go  to  him.  If  it  were  true  that  reason 
had  been  in  part  or  wholly  restored,  would  he  not  reject 
her  with  scorn  ?  The  very  thought  made  her  heart  stand 
rtill.  It  would  be  more  than  she  could  bear. 
27 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"VTO  otLer  result  than  the  one  that  followed  crald  ha?e 
i-^l  been  hoped  for.  The  strain  upon  Edith  was  too 
great.  After  the  funeral  of  her  mother  mind  s  nd  body 
gave  way,  and  she  passed  several  weeks  in  a  half-uncon- 
pcious  sta*  e. 

Two  w  >men,  leading  actors  in  this  tragedy  of  life,  met 
fo/  the  'irst  time  in  oyer  two  years — Mrs.  Hoyt.  alias 
Bray,  ai:d  Pinky  Swett.  It  had  not  gone  very  well  with 
either  of  them  during  that  period.  Pinky,  as  the  reader 
knows,  had  spent  the  time  in  prison,  and  Mrs.  Bray,  who 
had  aJ  10  gone  a  step  too  far  in  her  evil  ways,  was  now 
hiding  from  the  police  under  a  different  name  from  any 
heretr  fore  assumed.  They  met,  by  what  seemed  an  acci 
dent,  on  the  street. 

"  Finky !' 

"Fan!" 

Dropped  from  their  lips  in  mutual  surprise  and  pleasure. 
A  little  while  they  held  each  other's  hands,  and  looked 
into  each  other's  faces  with  keenly-searching,  sinister  eyes, 
one  thought  coming  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both — 
the  thought  of  that  long-time-lost  capital  in  trade,  the 
^ast-adrift  baby. 

From  the  street  they  went  to  Mrs,  Bray's  hiding-place 

m 


OAST  ADRIFT.  316 

— a  small  ill-furnished  room  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  the 
city — and  there  took  counsel  together. 

"What  became  of  that  baby?"  was  one  of  Mrs.  Bray's 
first  questions. 

"  It's  all  right,"  answered  Pinky. 

"  Do  you  know  where  it  is  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  can  you  put  your  hand  on  it  ?" 

"At  any  moment." 

"Not  worth  the  trouble  of  looking  after  now/"  said 
Mrs.  Bray,  assuming  an  indifferent  manner. 

"  Why  ?"     Pinky  turned  on  her  quickly. 

"  Oh,  because  the  old  lady  is  dead." 

"What  old  lady?" 

"  The  grandmother." 

"When  did  she  die?" 

"  Threo  or  four  weeks  ago." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?"  asked  Pinky. 

Mrs.  Bray  closed  her  lips  tightly  and  shook  her  head, 

"  Can't  betray  that  secret,"  she  replied. 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  like ;"  and  Pinky  gave  her  head  an 
impatient  toss.  "  High  sense  of  honor!  Respect  for  the 
memory  of  a  departed  friend !  But  it  won't  go  down 
with  me,  Fan.  We  know  each  other  too  well.  As  for 
the  baby — a  pretty  big  one  now,  by  the  way,  and  as  hand 
some  a  boy  as  you'll  find  in  all  this  city — he's  worth 
something  to  somebody,  and  I'm  on  that  somebody's 
track.  There's  a  mother  as  well  as  a  grandmother  in  the 
mse,  Fan." 

Mrs.  Bray's  eyes  flashed,  and  her  face  grew  red  with  an 


316  CAST  ADRIF1. 

excitement  she  could  not  hold  back.  Pinky  watched  he- 
keen  ly. 

"  There's  somebody  in  this  town  to-day  who  would  giv* 
thousands  to  get  him,"  she  added,  still  keeping  her  eyes 
on  her  companion.  "  And  as  I  was  saying,  I'm  on  that 
somebody's  track.  You  thought  no  one  but  you  and  Sal 
Long  knew  anything,  and  that  when  she  died  you  had  the 
6ecret  all  to  yourself.  But  Sal  didn't  keep  mum  about  it." 

"Did  she  tell  you  anything?"  demanded  Mrs.  Bray, 
thrown  off  her  guard  by  Pinky's  last  assertion. 

"  Enough  for  me  to  put  this  and  that  together  and 
make  it  nearly  all  out,"  answered  Pinky,  with  great  cool 
ness.  "I  was  close  after  the  game  when  I  got  caught 
myself.  But  I'm  on  the  track  once  more,  and  don't 
mean  to  be  thrown  off.  A  link  or  two  in  the  chain  of 
evidence  touching  the  parentage  of  this  child,  and  I  am 
all  right.  You  have  these  missing  links,  and  can  furnish 
them  if  you  will.  If  not,  I  am  bound  to  find  them. 
You  know  me,  Fan.  If  I  once  set  my  heart  on  doing  a 
thing,  heaven  and  earth  can't  stop  me." 

"  You're  devil  enough  for  anything,  I  know,  and  can  lie 
as  fast  as  you  can  talk,"  returned  Mrs.  Bray,  in  consider 
able  irritation.  "  If  I  could  believe  a  word  you  said ! 
But  I  can't." 

"Nc  necessity  for  it,"  retorted  Pinky,  with  a  careless 
toss  of  her  head.  "If  you  don't  wish  to  hunt  in  com 
pany,  all  right.  I'll  take  the  game  myself." 

"  You  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Bray,  "  I  can  spoil  your  game/ 

"Indeed!  how?" 

*  By  blowing  the  whole  thing  to  Mr.  — " 


CAST  ADRIFT.  317 

MMr.  \\ho?"  asked  Pinky,  leaning  forward  eagerly  as 
her  companion  paused  without  uttering  the  name  that 
was  on  her  lips. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?"  Mrs.  Bray  gave  a  low 
tantalizing  laugh. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  would,  from  you.  I'm  bound  to 
know  somehow,  and  it  will  be  cheapest  to  find  out  for 
myself/  replied  Pinky,  hiding  her  real  desire,  which  was 
to  get  the  clue  she  sought  from  Mrs.  Bray,  and  which  she 
alone  could  give.  "As  for  blowing  on  me,  I  wouldn't 
like  anything  better.  I  wish  you'd  call  on  Mr.  Some 
body  at  once,  and  tell  him  I've  got  the  heir  of  his  house 
and  fortune,  or  on  Mrs.  Somebody,  and  tell  her  I've  got 
her  lost  baby.  Do  it,  Fan  ;  that's  a  deary." 

"Suppose  I  were  to  do  so?"  asked  Mrs.  Bray,  repress 
ing  the  anger  that  was  in  her  heart,  and  speaking  with 
some  degree  of  calmness. 

"What  then?" 

"The  police  would  be  down  on  you  in  less  than  an 
hour." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  Your  game  would  be  up." 

Pinky  laughed  derisively : 

"  The  police  are  down  on  me  now,  and  have  been  com 
ing  down  on  me  for  nearly  a  month  past.  But  I'm  too 
much  for  them.  I  know  how  to  cover  my  tracks." 

"Down  on  you !     For  what?" 

"  They're  after  the  boy." 

•'  What  do  they  know  about  him  ?     Who  set  them 
tfterhim?" 
27* 


318  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"I  grabbed  him  up  last  Christmas  down  in  Briai 
street  after  being  on  his  track  for  a  week,  and  them  thai 
had  him  are  after  him  sharp." 

"Who  had  him?" 

"  I'm  a  little  puzzled  at  the  rumpus  it  has  kicked  up/ 
said  Pinky,  in  reply.  "  It's  stirred  things  amazingly." 

"How?" 

"  Oh,  as  I  said,  the  police  are  after  me  sharp.  They've 
had  me  before  the  mayor  twice,  and  got  two  or  three  to 
swear  they  saw  me  pick  up  the  child  in  Briar  street  and 
run  off  with  him.  But  I  denied  it  all." 

"  And  I  can  swear  that  you  confessed  it  all  to  me," 
said  Mrs.  Bray,  with  ill-concealed  triumph. 

"It  won't  do,  Fan,"  laughed  Pinky.  "They'll  not  be 
able  to  find  him  any  more  then  than  now.  But  I  wish 
you  would.  I'd  like  to  know  this  Mr.  Somebody  of 
whom  you  spoke.  I'll  sell  out  to  him.  He'll  bid  high, 
I'm  thinking." 

Baffled  by  her  sharper  accomplice,  and  afraid  to  trust 
hei  with  the  secret  of  the  child's  parentage  lest  she  should 
rob  her  of  the  last  gain  possible  to  receive  out  of  this 
great  iniquity,  Mrs.  Bray  became  wrought  up  to  a  state 
of  ungovernable  passion,  and  in  a  blind  rage  pushed 
Pinky  from  her  room.  The  assault  was  sudden  and  un 
expected — so  sudden  that  Pinky,  who  was  the  stronger, 
had  no  time  to  recover  herself  and  take  the  offensive 
before  she  was  on  the  outside  and  the  door  shut  and 
locked  against  her.  A  few  impotent  threats  and  curses 
were  interchanged  between  the  two  infuriated  women, 
ind  then  Pinky  went  away. 


CAST  ADRIFT. 

On  the  day  following,  as  Mr.  Dinneford  was  preparing 
to  go  out,  lie  was  informed  that  a  lady  had  called  and 
was  waiting  down  stairs  to  see  him.  She  did  not  send 
!ier  card  nor  give  her  name.  On  going  into  the  room 
where  the  visitor  had  been  shown,  he  saw  a  little  woman 
with  a  dark,  sallow  complexion.  She  arose  and  came 
forward  a  step  or  two  in  evident  embarrassment. 

"Mr.  Dinneford  ?"  she  said. 

•'  That  is  my  name,  madam,"  was  replied. 

"  You  do  not  know  me  ?" 

Mr.  Dinneford  looked  at  her  closely,  and  then  an- 
pwered, 

"  I  have  not  that  pleasure,  madam." 

The  woman  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  hesitating. 

"  Be  seated,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 

She  sat  down,  seeming  very  ill  at  ease.  He  took  a 
chair  in  front  of  her. 

"  You  wish  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  on  a  matter  that  deeply  concerns  you. 
[  was  your  daughter's  nurse  when  her  baby  was  born." 

She  paused  at  this.  Mr.  Dinneford  had  caught  his 
breath.  She  saw  the  almost  wild  interest  that  flushed  hia 
face. 

After  waiting  a  moment  for  some  response,  she  added, 
in  a  low,  steady  voice, 

"  That  baby  is  still  alive,  and  I  am  the  only  person  who 
can  clearly  identify  him." 

Mr.  Dinneford  did  not  reply  immediately.  He  saw  by 
the  woman's  face  that  she  was  not  to  be  trusted,  and  that 
in  coming  to  him  she  had  only  sinister  ends  in  view.  Hei 


320  CAST  ADHIFT. 

gtory  might  be  true  or  false.  He  thought  hurriedly,  ana 
tried  to  regain  exterior  calmness.  As  soon  as  he  felt 
that  he  could  speak  without  betraying  too  much  eager 
ness,  he  said,  with  an  appearance  of  having  recognized 
her, 

"You  are  Mrs. ?" 

He  paused,  but  she  did  not  supply  the  name. 

"Mrs. ?  Mrs. ?  what  is  it?" 

"No  matter,  Mr.  Dinneford,"  answered  Mrs.  Bray, 
with  the  coolness  and  self-possession  she  had  now  regained. 
"  What  I  have  just  told  you  is  true.  If  you  wish  to  fol 
low  up  the  matter — wish  to  get  possession  of  your  daugh 
ter's  child — you  have  the  opportunity ;  if  not,  our  inter 
view  ends,  of  course ;"  and  she  made  a  feint,  as  if  going 
to  rise. 

"  Is  it  the  child  a  woman  named  Pinky  Swett  stole 
away  from  Briar  street  on  Christmas  day  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Dinneford,  speaking  from  a  thought  that  flashed  into  his 
mind,  and  so  without  premeditation.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
intently  on  Mrs.  Bray's  face,  and  saw  by  its  quick 
changes  and  blank  surprise  that  he  had  put  the  right 
question.  Before  she  could  recover  herself  and  reply,  he 
added, 

"  And  you  are,  doubtless,  this  same  Pinky  Swett." 

The  half  smile,  half  sneer,  that  curved  the  woman's 
lips,  told  Mr.  Dinneford  that  he  was  mistaken. 

"  No,  sir,"  was  returned,  with  regained  coolness.  "  I 
*m  not '  this  same  Pinky  Swett.'  You  are  out  there." 

"  But  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  just  now,  sir,"  answered  the 


CAST  ADRIFT.  321 

woman,  witn  a  chill  in  her  tones.     She  rlosed  her  lipa 
Lightly,  and  shrunk  back  in  her  chair. 
•    "  What,  then,  are  you  here  for  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford, 
thowing  considerable  sternness  of  manner. 

"I  thought  ycu  understood,"  returned  the  woman.  "1 
«ras  explicit  in  iny  statement." 

"  Oh,  I  begin  to  see.  There  is  a  price  on  your  informa 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  might  have  known  that  from  the  first 
i  will  be  frank  with  you." 

<l  But  why  have  you  kept  this  secret  for  three  years? 
Why  did  you  not  come  before?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford. 

"  Because  I  was  paid  to  keep  the  secret.  Do  you  un 
derstand  ?" 

Too  well  did  Mr.  Dinneford  understand,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  he  could  suppress  a  groan  as  his  head 
drooped  forward  and  his  eyes  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  It  does  not  pay  to  keep  it  any  longer,"  added  the 
woman. 

Mr.  Dinneford  made  no  response. 

"  Gain  lies  on  the  other  side.  The  secret  is  yours,  if 
you  will  have  it." 

"  At  what  price  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dinneford,  without  lifting 
his  eyes. 

"  One  thousand  dollars,  cash  in  hand." 

"  On  production  of  the  child  and  proof  of  its  identity?" 

Mrs.  Bray  took  time  to  answer.  "  I  do  not  mean  to 
have  any  slip  in  this  matter,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a  bad 
business  at  the  start,  as  I  told  Mrs.  Dinneford,  and  has 
given  me  more  trouble  than  I've  been  paid  for,  ten  times 

V 


322  CAST  ADRIFT. 

over.  1  shall  not  be  sorry  to  wash  my  hands  Jean  of  it, 
but  whenever  I  do  so,  there  must  be  compensation  and 
security.  I  haven't  the  child,  and  you  may  hunt  me  to 
cover  with  all  the  police  hounds  in  the  city,  and  yet  not 
find  him." 

"  If  I  agree  to  pay  your  demand,"  replied  Mr.  Dinne- 
ford,  "  it  can  only  be  on  production  and  identification  of 
the  child." 

"After  which  your  humble  servant  will  be  quickly 
handed  over  to  the  police,"  a  low,  derisive  laugh  gurg 
ling  in  the  woman's  throat. 

"  The  guilty  are  ever  in  dread,  and  the  false  always  in 
fear  of  betrayal,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  I  can  make  no 
terms  with  you  for  any  antecedent  reward.  The  child 
must  be  in  my  possession  and  his  parentage  clearly 
proved  before  I  give  you  a  dollar.  As  to  what  may  fol 
low  to  yourself,  your  safety  will  lie  in  your  own  silence. 
You  hold,  and  will  still  hold,  a  family  secret  that  we  shall 
not  care  to  have  betrayed.  If  you  should  ever  betray  it, 
or  seek,  because  of  its  possession,  to  annoy  or  prey  upor. 
us,  I  shall  consider  all  honorable  contract  we  may  have 
at  an  end,  and  act  accordingly." 

"  Will  you  put  in  writing  an  obligation  to  pay  me  one 
thousand  dollars  in  case  I  bring  the  child  and  prove  its 
identity  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  will  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  thia 
gum  shall  be  placed  in  your  hands  whenever  you  produce 
the  child." 

Mrs.  Bray  remained  silent  for  a  considerable  time,  then, 
is  if  satisfied,  arose,  saying, 


CAST  ADRIFT.  323 

•'  You  will  hear  from  me  by  to-morrow  or  the  da)  after, 
KC  farthest.  Good-morning." 

As  she  was  moving  toward  the  door  Mr.  Dinneford 
said, 

"  Let  me  have  your  name  and  residence,  madam." 

The  woman  quickened  her  steps,  pnrtly  turning  her 
head  as  she  did  so,  and  said,  with  a  sinister  curl  of  the 
lip, 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

In  the  next  moment  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"YT  OTHING  of  all  this  was  communicated  to  Edith 
-L  *  After  a  few  weeks  of  prostration  strength  cam*, 
slowly  back  to  mind  and  body,  and  with  returning  strength 
her  interest  in  her  old  work  revived.  Her  feet  went  down 
again  into  lowly  ways,  and  her  hands  took  hold  of  suf 
fering. 

Immediately  on  receipt  of  Freeliug's  letter  and  affi 
davit,  Mr.  Dinneford  had  taken  steps  to  procure  a  pardon 
for  George  Granger.  It  came  within  a  few  days  after 
the  application  was  made,  and  the  young  man  was  taken 
from  the  asylum  where  he  had  been  for  three  years. 

Mr.  Dinneford  went  to  him  with  Freel  ing's  affidavit 
and  the  pardon,  and  placing  them  in  his  hands,  watched 
him  closely  to  see  the  effect  they  would  produce.  He 
found  him  greatly  changed  in  appearance,  looking  older 
by  many  years.  His  manner  was  quiet,  as  that  of  one 
who  had  learned  submission  after  long  suffering.  But 
his  eyes  were  clear  and  steady,  and  without  sign  of 
mental  aberration.  He  read  Freeling's  affidavit  first, 
folded  it  in  an  absent  kind  of  way,  as  if  he  were  dream 
ing,  reopened  and  read  it  through  again.  Then  Mr. 
Dinneford  saw  a  strong  shiver  pass  over  him;  he  becamo 
pale  and  slightly  convulsed.  His  face  sunk  in  his  handa, 
324 


CAST  ADRIFT.  324 

and  he  sat  for  a  while  struggling  with  em(  -tions  that  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  hold  back. 

When  he  looked  up,  the  wild  struggle  was'  over. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  he  said. 

"  No,  George,  it  is  never  too  late,"  replied  Mr.  Diiine- 
ford.  "You  have  suffered  a  cruel  wrong,  but  in  the 
future  there  are  for  you,  I  doubt  not.  many  compensa 
tions." 

He  shook  his  head  in  a  dreary  way,  murmuring, 

"  I  have  lost  too  much." 

"  Nothing  that  may  not  be  restored.  And  in  all  you 
have  not  lost  a  good  conscience." 

"  No,  thank  God  I"  answered  the  young  man,  with  a 
gudden  flush  in  his  face.  "  But  for  that  anchor  to  my 
Boul,  I  should  have  long  ago  drifted  out  to  sea  a  helpless 
wreck.  No,  thank  God!  I  have  not  lost  a  good  con- 
science." 

"You  have  not  yet  read  the  other  paper,"  said  Mr, 
Dinneford.  "  It  is  your  pardon." 

"  Pardon !"  An  indignant  flash  came  into  Granger's 
eyes.  "  Oh,  sir,  that  hurts  too  deeply.  Pardon !  I  am 
not  a  criminal." 

"  Falsely  so  regarded  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  but  now 
proved  to  be  innocent,  and  so  expressed  by  the  governor. 
It  is  not  a  pardon  in  any  sense  of  remission,  but  a  declara 
tion  of  innocence  and  sorrow  for  the  undeserved  wrongs 
you  have  suffered  " 

"  It  is  well,"  he  answered,  gloomily — "  the  best  thai 
can  be  done ;  and  I  should  be  thankful." 

"You   cannot  be  more  deeply  thankful  than  I  am 


326  CAST  ADRIFT. 

George."  Mr.  Dinueford  spoke  with  much  feeling.  "Loi 
us  bury  this  dreadful  past  out  of  our  sight,  and  trust  in 
God  for  a  better  future.  You  are  free  again,  and  your 
innocence  shall,  so  far  as  I  have  power  to  do  it,  be  made 
as  clear  as  noonday.  You  are  at  liberty  to  depart  from 
here  at  once.  Will  you  go  with  me  now  ?" 

Granger  lifted  a  half-surprised  look  to  Mr.  Dinneford's 
face. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  after  a  few  moments'  thought 
"  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness,  but  I  prefer  remain 
ing  here  for  a  few  days,  until  I  can  confer  with  my  friends 
and  make  some  decision  as  to  the  future." 

Granger's  manner  grew  reserved,  almost  embarrassed. 
Mr.  Dinneford  was  not  wrong  in  his  impression  of  the 
cause.  How  could  he  help  thinking  of  Edith,  who,  turn 
ing  against  him  with  the  rest,  had  accepted  the  theory  of 
guilt  and  pronounced  her  sentence  upon  him,  hardest  of 
all  to  bear  ?  So  it  appeared  to  him,  for  he  had  nothing 
but  the  hard  fact  before  him  that  she  had  applied  for 
and  obtained  a  divorce. 

Yes,  it  was  the  thought  of  Edith  that  drew  Granger 
back  and  covered  him  with  reserve.  What  more  could 
Mr.  Dinneford  say?  He  had  not  considered  all  the 
bearings  of  this  unhappy  case ;  but  now  that  he  remem 
bered  the  divorce,  ne  began  co  see  how  full  of  embarrass- 
tn  ent  it  was,  and  how  delicate  the  relation  ne  bore  to  this 
rnhappy  victim  of  his  wife's  dreadful  crime. 

What  could  he  say  for  Edith?  Nothing!  He  knew 
that  her  heart  had  never  tu:  ned  itself  away  from  thii 
•nan,  though  she  had,  under  a  press  are  she  was  not  strong 


CAST  ADRIFT.  327 

enough  to  resist,  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  cast 
aside  his  dishonored  name,  thus  testifying  to  the  world 
that  she  believed  him  base  and  criminal.  If  he  should 
speak  of  her,  would  not  the  young  man  answer  with  in 
dignant  scorn  ? 

"  Give  me  the  address  of  your  friends,  and  I  will  call 
upon  them  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  replying> 
after  a  long  silence,  to  Granger's  last  remark.  "  I  am 
here  to  repair,  to  any  extent  that  in  me  lies,  the  frightful 
wrongs  you  have  suffered.  I  shall  make  your  cause  my 
own,  and  never  rest  until  every  false  tarnish  shall  be 
wiped  from  your  name.  In  honor  and  conscience  I  am 
bound  to  this." 

Looking  at  the  young  man  intently,  he  saw  a  grateful 
response  in  the  warmer  color  that  broke  into  his  face  and 
in  the  moisture  that  filled  his  eyes. 

"  I  would  be  base  if  I  were  not  thankful,  Mr.  Dinne 
ford,"  Granger  replied.  "  But  you  cannot  put  yourself 
in  my  place,  cannot  know  what  I  have  suffered,  cannot 
comprehend  the  sense  of  wrong  and  cruel  rejection  that 
has  filled  my  soul  with  the  very  gall  of  bitterness.  To 
be  cast  out  utterly,  suddenly  and  without  warning  from 
heaven  into  hell,  and  for  no  evil  thought  or  act !  Ah,  sir ! 
you  do  not  understand." 

"  It  was  a  frightful  ordeal,  George,"  answered  Mr.  Din- 
ueford,  laying  his  hand  on  Granger  with  the  tenderness 
of  a  father.  "  But,  thank  God !  it  is  over  You  have 
stood  the  terrible  heat,  and  now,  coming  out  of  the  fur 
nace,  I  shall  see  to  it  that  not  even  the  smell  of  fire  re 
main  upon  your  garments. 


328  CAST  AUHIFT. 

Still  the  young  man  could  not  be  moved  from  his  pm 
pose  to  remain  at  the  asylum  until  he  had  seen  and  con 
ferred  with  his  friends,  in  whose  hands  Mr.  Dinneford 
placed  the  governor's  pardon  and  the  affidavit  of  Lloyd 
Freeling  setting  forth  his  innocence. 

Mrs.  Bray  did  not  call  on  Mr.  Dinneford,  as  she  had 
promised.  She  had  quarreled  with  Pinky  Swett,  as  the 
reader  will  remember,  and  in  a  fit  of  blind  anger  thiust 
her  from  the  room.  But  in  the  next  moment  she  remem 
bered  that  she  did  not  know  where  the  girl  lived,  and  if 
she  lost  sight  of  her  now,  might  not  again  come  across 
her  for  weeks  or  months.  So  putting  on  her  hat  and 
cloak  hurriedly,  she  waited  until  she  heard  Pinky  going 
down  stairs,  and  then  came  out  noiselessly  and  fol 
lowed  her  into  the  street.  She  had  to  be  quick  in  her 
movements,  for  Pinky,  hot  with  anger,  was  dashing  off 
at  a  rapid  speed.  For  three  or  four  blocks  Mrs.  Bray 
kept  her  in  view ;  but  there  being  only  a  few  persons  in 
the  street,  she  had  to  remain  at  a  considerable  distance 
behind,  so  as  not  to  attract  her  attention.  Suddenly  she 
lost  sight  of  Pinky.  She  had  looked  back  on  hearing  a 
noise  in  the  street ;  turning  again,  she  could  see  nothing 
of  the  girl.  Hurrying  forward  to  the  corner  which 
Pinky  had  in  all  probability  turned,  Mrs.  Bray  looked 
eagerly  up  and  down,  but  to  her  disappointment  Pinky 
was  not  in  sight. 

"  Somewhere  here.  I  thought  it  was  farther  off,"  said 
Mrs.  Bray  to  herself.  "  It's  too  bad  that  I  should  have 
lost  sight  of  her." 

She  stood   irresolute  for  a  little  while,  then  walkec 


CAST  ADRIFT.  329 

down  one  of  the  blocks  and  back  on  the  other  side, 
Halfway  down,  a  small  street  or  alley  divided  the  block. 

"It's  in  there,  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Bray,  speaking  to 
herself  again.  On  the  corner  was  a  small  shop  in  which 
notions  and  trimmings  were  sold.  Going  into  this,  she 
asked  for  some  trifling  articles,  and  while  looking  over 
them  drew  the  woman  who  kept  the  shop  into  conver 
sation. 

"  What  kind  of  people  live  in  this  little  street  ?"  she 
inquired,  in  a  half-careless  tone. 

The  woman  smiled  as  she  answered,  with  a  slight  toss 
of  the  head, 

"  Oh,  all  kinds." 

"Good,  bad  and  indifferent ?" 

"  Yes,  white  sheep  and  black." 

"So  I  thought.  The  black  sheep  will  get  in.  You 
can't  keep  'em  out." 

"  No,  and  'tisn't  much  use  trying,"  answered  the  shop 
keeper,  with  a  levity  of  manner  not  unmarked  by  Mrs. 
Bray,  who  said, 

"The  black  sheep  have  to  live  as  well  as  the  white 
•)Des." 

"  Just  so.     You  hit  the  nail  there." 

u  And  I  suppose  you  find  their  money  as  good  as  that 
of  the  whitest?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  And  quite  as  freely  spent?" 

"  As  to  that,"  answered  the  woman,  who  was  inclined 
to-be  talkative  and  gossipy,  "we  make  more  out  of  the 
black  sheep  than  out  of  the  white  ones.  They  don'l 

28* 


330  CAST  ADRIFT. 

higgle  so  about  prices.  Not  that  we  have  two  prices,  bui 
you  see  they  don't  try  to  beat  us  down,  and  never  stop  to 
worry  about  the  cost  of  a  thing  if  they  happen  to  fancy 
it.  They  look  and  buy,  and  there's  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  understand,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bray,  with  a  familiar 
nod.  "  It  may  be  wicked  to  say  so ;  but  if  I  kept  a  store 
like  this,  I'd  rather  have  the  sinners  for  customers  than 
the  saints." 

She  had  taken  a  seat  at  the  counter ;  and  now,  leaning 
forward  upon  her  arms  and  looking  at  the  shop-woman  in 
a  pleasant,  half-confidential  way,  said, 

"  You  know  everybody  about  here  ?" 

"  Pretty  much." 

"  The  black  sheep  as  well  as  the  white?" 

"  As  customers." 

"  Of  course ;  that's  all  I  mean,"  was  returned.  "  I'd 
be  sorry  if  you  knew  them  in  any  other  way — some  of 
ihem,  at  least."  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Do  you  know  a 
girl  they  call  Pinky?" 

"  I  may  know  her,  but  not  by  that  name.  What  kind 
of  a  looking  person  is  she?" 

"  A  tall,  bold-faced,  dashing,  dare-devil  sort  of  a  girl, 
with  a  snaky  look  in  her  eyes.  She  wears  a  pink  hat 
with  a  white  feather." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  have  seen  some  one  like  that,  but  she'a 
not  been  around  here  long." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last?" 

"  If  it's  the  same  one  you  mean,  I  saw  her  go  by  here 
not  ten  minutes  ago  She  lives  somewhere  down  the 


CAST  ADRIFT.  33\ 

"  Do  you  know  the  house  ?" 

"  I  do  not ;  but  it  can  be  found,  nc  doubt.  You  called 
her  Pinky" 

"Yes.     Her  name  is  Pinky  Swett." 

"  O-h  !  o-h !"  ejaculated  the  shop-woman,  lifting  her 
eyebrows  in  a  surprised  way.  "  Why,  that's  the  girl  the 
police  were  after.  They  said  she'd  run  off  with  some 
body's  child." 

"  Did  they  arrest  her  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bray,  repressing, 
as  far  as  possible,  all  excitement 

"  They  took  her  off  once  or  twice,  I  believe,  but  didn't 
make  anything  out  of  her.  At  any  rate,  the  child  was 
not  found.  It  belonged,  they  said,  to  a  rich  up-town 
family  that  the  girl  was  trying  to  black-mail.  But  I 
don't  see  how  that  could  be." 

"  The  child  isn't  about  here  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  If  it  was,  it  would  have  been  found 
long  before  this,  for  the  police  are  hunting  around 
sharp.  If  it's  all  as  they  say,  she's  got  it  hid  somewhere 
else." 

While  Mrs.  Bray  talked  with  the  shop-woman,  Pinky, 
who  had  Hiade  a  hurried  call  at  her  room,  only  a  hundred 
yards  away,  was  going  as  fast  as  a  street-car  could  take 
her  to  a  distant  part  of  the  city.  On  leaving  the  car  at 
the  corner  of  a  narrow,  half-deserted  street,  in  which  the 
only  sign  of  life  was  a  child  or  two  at  play  in  the  snow 
and  a  couple  of  goats  lying  on  a  cellar-door,  she  walked 
for  half  the  distance  of  a  block,  and  then  turned  into  a 
court  lined  on  both  sides  with  small,  ill-conditioned 
tiouses,  not  half  of  them  tenanted.  Snow  and  ice  blocked 


332  CAST  ADRIFT. 

the  little  road-way,  except  where  a  narrow  path  had  beei 
cut  along  close  to  the  houses. 

Without  knocking,  Pinky  entered  one  of  these  pooi 
tenements.  As  she  pushed  open  the  door,  a  woman  who 
was  crouching  down  before  a  small  stove,  on  which  some 
thing  was  cooking,  started  up  with  a  look  of  surprise 
that  changed  to  one  of  anxiety  and  fear  the  moment  she 
recognized  her  visitor. 

"  Is  Andy  all  right?'*  cried  Pinky,  alarm  in  her  face. 

The  woman  tried  to  stammer  out  something,  but  did 
not  make  herself  understood.  At  this,  Pinky,  into  whose 
eyes  flashed  a  fierce  light,  caught  her  by  the  wrists  in  a 
grip  that  almost  crushed  the  bones. 

"  Out  with  it !  where  is  Andy  ?" 

Still  the  frightened  woman  could  not  speak. 

"  If  that  child  isn't  here,  I'll  murder  you  !"  said  Pinky, 
now  white  with  anger,  tightening  her  grasp. 

At  this,  with  a  desperate  effort,  the  woman  flung  her 
off,  and  catching  up  a  long  wooden  bench,  raised  it  over 
her  head. 

"  If  there's  to  be  any  murder  going  on,"  she  said,  re 
covering  her  powers  of  speech,  "  I'll  take  the  first  hand ! 
As  for  the  troublesome  brat,  he's  gone.  Got  out  of  the 
window  and  climbed  down  the  spout.  Wonder  he  wasn't 
killed.  Did  fall — I  don't  know  how  far — and  must  have 
hurt  himself,  for  I  heard  a  noise  as  if  something  heavy 
had  dropped  in  the  yard,  but  thought  it  was  next  door 
Half  an  hour  afterward,  in  going  up  stairs  and  opening 
the  door  of  the  room  where  I  kept  him  locked  in,  I  f  ,und 
it  empty  and  the  window  open.  That's  the  whole  '  cory 


CAST  ADRIFT.  333 

[  ran  out  and  looked  everywhere,  but  he  was  off.    And 
now,  if  the  murder  is  to  come,  I'm  going  to  be  in  first." 

And  she  still  kept  the  long  wooden  bench  poised  above 
her  head. 

Pinky  saw  a  dangerous  look  in  the  woman's  eyes. 

"Put  that  thing  down,"  she  cried,  "and  don't  be  a 
fool.  Let  me  see ;"  and  she  darted  past  the  woman 
and  ran  up  stairs.  She  found  the  window  of  Andy's 
prison  open  and  the  print  of  his  little  fingers  on  the  snow- 
covered  sill  outside,  where  he  had  held  on  before  dropping 
to  the  ground,  a  distance  of  many  feet.  There  was  no 
doubt  now  in  her  mind  as  to  the  truth  of  the  woman's 
story.  The  child  had  made  his  escape. 

"  Have  you  been  into  all  the  neighbors'  houses?"  asked 
Pinky  as  she  came  down  hastily. 

"  Into  some,  but  not  all,"  she  replied, 

"  How  long  is  it  since  he  got  away  ?" 

"  More  than  two  hours." 

"And  you've  been  sticking  down  here,  instead  01  ran 
sacking  every  hole  and  corner  in  the  neighborhood.  I 
can  hardly  keep  my  hands  off  of  you." 

The  woman  was  on  the  alert.  Pinky  saw  this,  and  did 
not  attempt  to  put  her  threat  into  execution.  After  pour 
ing  out  her  wrath  in  a  flood  of  angry  invectives,  she 
went  out  and  began  a  thorough  search  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  going  into  every  house  for  a  distance  of  three  or 
four  blocks  in  all  directions.  But  she  could  neither  find 
the  child  nor  get  the  smallest  trace  of  him.  He  had 
dropped  out  of  sight,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  as  com 
pletely  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  the  sea. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

DAY  after  day  Mr.  Dinneford  waited  for  the  wcmaa 
who  was  to  restore  the  child  of  Edith,  but  she  did 
not  come.  Over  a  week  elapsed,  but  she  neither  called 
nor  sent  him  a  sign  or  a  word.  He  dared  not  speak 
about  this  to  Edith.  She  was  too  weak  in  body  and 
mind  for  any  further  suspense  or  strain. 

Andrew  Hall  had  been  nearly  thrown  down  again  by  the 
events  of  that  Christmas  day.  The  hand  of  a  little  child 
was  holding  him  fast  to  a  better  life ;  but  when  that  hand 
was  torn  suddenly  away  from  his  grasp,  he  felt  the  pull 
of  evil  habits,  the  downward  drift  of  old  currents.  Hia 
steps  gisew  weak,  his  knees  trembled.  But  God  did  not 
mean  that  he  should  be  left  alone.  He  had  reached 
down  to  him  through  the  hand  of  a  little  child,  had 
lifted  him  up  and  led  him  into  a  way  of  safety  ;  and  now 
that  this  small  hand,  the  soft  touch  of  which  had  gone 
to  his  heart  and  stirred  him  with  old  memories,  sad  and 
sweet  and  holy,  had  dropped  away  from  him,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  losing  his  hold  of  heaven,  God  sent  him, 
in  Mr.  Dinneford,  an  angel  with  a  stronger  hand.  There 
were  old  associations  that  held  these  men  together.  They 
had  been  early  and  attached  friends,  and  this  meeting, 
after  many  years  of  separation,  under  such  strange  cir 
cumstances,  and  with  a  common  fear  and  anxiety  at 
IM 


OAST  ADRIFT.  335 

heart,  could  not  but  have  the  effect  of  arousing  in  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Diimeford  the  deepest  concern  for  the 
unhappy  man.  He  saw  the  new  peril  into  which  he  was 
thrown  by  the  loss  of  Andy,  and  made  it  his  first  busi 
ness  to  surround  him  with  all  possible  good  and  strength 
ening  influences.  So  the  old  memories  awakened  by  the 
coming  of  Andy  did  not  fade  out  and  lose  their  power 
over  the  man.  He  had  taken  hold  of  the  good  past 
again,  and  still  held  to  it  with  the  tight  grasp  of  one 
conscious  of  danger. 

*'We  shall  find  the  child— no  fear  of  that,"  Mr.  Din- 
neford  would  say  to  him  over  and  over  again,  trying  to 
comfort  his  own  heart  as  well,  as  the  days  went  by  and  no 
little  Andy  could  be  found.  "  The  police  have  the  girl 
under  the  sharpest  surveillance,  and  she  cannot  baffle 
them  much  longer." 

George  Granger  left  the  asylum  with  his  friends,  and 
dropped  out  of  sight.  He  did  not  show  himself  in  the 
old  places  nor  renew  old  associations.  He  was  too  deeply 
hurt.  The  disaster  had  been  too  great  for  any  attempt 
on  his  part  at  repairing  the  old  dwelling-places  of  his 
life.  His  was  not  what  we  call  a  strong  nature,  but  he 
was  susceptible  of  very  deep  impressions.  He  was  fine 
and  sensitive,  rather  than  strong.  Rejected  by  his  wife 
and  family  without  a  single  interview  with  her  or  even 
an  opportunity  to  assert  his  innocence,  he  felt  the  wrong" 
BO  deeply  that  he  could  not  get  over  it.  His  love  for  his 
wife  had  been  profound  and  tender,  and  when  it  became 
known  to  him  that  she  had  accepted  the  appearances  of 
guilt  as  conclusive,  and  broken  with  her  own  hands  the 


336  CAST  ADRIFT. 

tie  that  bound  them,  it  was  more  than  he  had  strength 
to  bear,  and  a  long  time  passed  before  he  rallied  from 
this  hardest  blow  of  all. 

Edith  knew  that  her  father  had  seen  Granger  after 
securing  his  pardon,  and  she  had  learned  from  him  only, 
particulars  of  the  interview.  Beyond  this  nothing  came 
to  her.  She  stilled  her  heart,  aching  with  the  old  love 
that  crowded  all  its  chambers,  and  tried  to  be  patient 
and  submissive.  It  was  very  hard.  But  she  was  help 
less.  Sometimes,  in  the  anguish  and  wild  agitation  of 
eoul  that  seized  her,  she  would  resolve  to  put  in  a  letter 
all  she  thought  and  felt,  and  have  it  conveyed  *.o  Gran 
ger  ;  but  fear  and  womanly  delicacy  drove  her  back  from 
this.  What  hope  had  she  that  he  would,  not  reject  her 
with  hatred  and  scorn  ?  It  was  a  venture  she  dared  not 
make,  for  she  felt  that  such  a  rejection  would  kill  her. 

But  for  her  work  among  the  destitute  and  the  neglected, 
Edith  would  have  shut  herself  up  at  home.  Christian 
charity  drew  her  forth  daily,  and  in  offices  of  kindness 
and  mercy  she  found  a  peace  and  rest  to  which  she  would 
otherwise  have  been  a  stranger. 

She  was  on  her  way  home  one  afternoon  from  a  visit 
to  the  mission-school  where  she  had  first  heard  of  the  poor 
baby  in  Grubb's  court.  All  that  day  thoughts  of  little 
A.ndy  kept  crowding  into  her  mind.  She  could  not  push 
aside  his  image  as  she  saw  it  on  Christmas,  when  he  sat 
among  the  children,  his  large  eyes  resting  in  such  a  wist 
ful  look  upon  her  face.  Her  eyes  often  grew  dim  and  her 
heart  full  as  she  looked  upon  that  tender  face,  pictured 
for  her  as  distinctly  as  if  photographed  to  natural  sight. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  337 

"  Oh  my  baby,  my  baby !"  ?ame  almost  audibly  from 
li«r  lips,  ID  a  burst  of  ^rrepress'ble  feeling,  for  ever  since 
she  had  seen  this  child,  the  thoLght  of  him  linked  itself 
with  that  of  her  lost  baby. 

Up  to  this  time  her  father  had  carefully  concealed 
his  interview  with  Mrs.  Bray.  .  He  was  in  so  much 
doubt  as  to  the  effect  that  woman's  communication  might 
produce  while  yet  the  child  was  missing  that  he  deemed 
it  best  to  maintain  the  strictest  silence  until  it  could  be 
found. 

Walking  along  with  heart  and  thought  where  they 
dwolt  for  so  large  a  part  of  her  time,  Edith,  in  turning  a 
corner,  came  upon  a  woman  who  stopped  at  sight  of  her 
as  if  suddenly  fastened  to  the  ground — stopped  only  for 
an  instant,  like  one  surprised  by  an  unexpected  and  un 
welcome  encounter,  and  then  made  a  motion  to  pass  on. 
But  Edith,  partly  from  memory  and  partly  from  intui 
tion,  recognized  her  nurse,  and  catching  fast  hold  of  her, 
said,  in  a  low  imperative  voice,  while  a  look  of  wild  ex 
citement  spread  over  her  face, 

"  Where  is  my  baby  ?" 

The  woman  tried  to  shake  her  off,  but  Edith  held  her 
with  a  grasp  that  could  not  be  broken. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  "  let  go 
of  me !  This  is  the  public  street,  and  you'll  have  a  crowd 
about  us  in  a  moment,  and  the  police  with  them." 

But  Edith  kept  fast  hold  of  her. 

"  First  tell  me  where  I  can  find  my  baby,"  she  an- 
iwered. 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  woman,  moving  as  she  spoke 
*  W 


338  CAST  ADRIFT. 

in  the  direction  Edith  was  going  when  they  met.  "  If  you 
want  a  row  with  the  police,  I  don't." 

Edith  was  close  to  her  side,  with  her  hand  yet  upon  he* 
and  her  voice  in  her  ears. 

"My  baby!  Quick!  Say!  Where  can  I  find  my 
baby?" 

"  What  do  I  know  of  your  baby  ?  You  are  a  fool,  a» 
mad  1"  answered  the  woman,  trying  to  throw  her  off.  "  I 
don't  know  you." 

"  But  I  know  you,  Mrs.  Bray,"  said  Edith,  speaking 
the  name  at  a  venture  as  the  one  she  remembered  hear 
ing  the  servant  give  to  her  mother. 

At  this  the  woman's  whole  manner  changed,  and  Edith 
saw  that  she  was  right — that  this  was,  indeed,  the  accom 
plice  of  her  mother. 

"  And  now,"  she  added,  in  a  voice  grown  calm  and  res 
olute,  "  I  do  not  mean  to  let  you  escape  until  I  get  sure 
knowledge  of  my  child.  If  you  fly  from  me,  I  will  fol 
low  and  call  for  the  police.  If  you  have  any  of  the  in 
stincts  of  a  woman  left,  you  will  know  that  I  am  des 
perately  in  earnest.  What  is  a  street  excitement  or  a 
temporary  arrest  by  ihe  police,  or  even  a  station-house 
exposure,  to  me,  in  comparison  with  the  recovery  of  my 
child?  Where  is  he?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Bray.  "After  seeing 
your  father — " 

"My  father!  When  did  you  see  him?"  exclaimed 
Fdith,  betraying  in  her  surprised  voice  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Dinneford  had  kept  so  far,  even  from  her,  the  secret  of 
that  brief  interview  to  which  she  now  referred. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  339 

"Oh,  he  hasn't  told  you!  But  it's  no  matter;  he  will  do 
that  in  good  time.  After  seeing  your  father,  I  made  an 
effort  to  get  possession  of  your  child  and  restore  him  as  I 
promised  to  do.  But  the  woman  who  had  him  hidden 
somewhere  managed  to  keep  out  of  my  way  until  thia 
morning.  And  now  she  says  he  got  off  from  her,  climbed 
out  of  a  second-story  window  and  disappeared,  no  one 
knows  where." 

"  This  woman's  name  is  Pinky  Swett  ?"  said  Edith. 

«  Yes." 

Mrs.  Bray  felt  the  hand  that  was  still  upon  her  arm 
shake  as  if  from  a  violent  chill. 

"  Do  you  believe  what  she  says  ? — that  the  child  haa 
really  escaped  from  her?" 

"Yes." 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?" 

Mrs.  Bray  gave  the  true  directions,  and  without  hesita 
tion. 

"  Is  this  child  the  one  she  stole  from  the  Briar-street 
mission  on  Christmas  day  ?"  ahKevl  Edith. 

"  He  is,"  answered  Mrs.  Bray. 

"  How  shall  I  know  he  is  mine  ?  What  proof  is  there 
that  little  Andy,  as  he  is  called,  and  my  baby  are  the 
Bame?" 

"  I  know  him  to  be  your  child,  for  I  have  never  lost 
sight  of  him,"  replied  the  woman,  emphatically.  "  You 
may  know  him  by  his  eyes  and  mouth  and  chin,  for  they 
are  yours.  Nobody  can  mistake  the  likeness.  But  there 
is  another  proof.  When  I  nursed  you,  I  saw  on  your 
arm,  just  above  the  elbow,  a  small  raised  mark  of  a  red 


340  CAST  ADRIFT. 

color,  and  noticed  a  similar  one  on  the  baby's  arm.  You 
will  see  it  there  whenever  you  find  the  child  that  Pinky 
Swett  stole  from  the  mission-house  on  Christmas  day. 
Good-bye !" 

And  the  woman,  seeing  that  her  companion  was  off  of 
her  guard,  sprang  away,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  the  crowd 
before  Edith  could  rally  herself  and  make  an  attempt  t* 
follow.  How  she  got  home  she  could  hardly  telL 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FOR  weeks  the  search  for  Andy  was  kept  up  with  un 
remitting  vigilance,  but  no  word  of  him  came  to  the 
anxious  searchers.  A  few  days  after  the  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Bray,  the  police  report  mentioned  the  arrest  of  both 
Pinky  Swett  and  Mrs.  Bray,  alias  Hoyt,  alias  Jewett, 
charged  with  stealing  a  diamond  ring  of  considerable 
value  from  a  jewelry  store.  They  were  sent  to  prison,  in 
default  of  bail,  to  await  trial.  Mr.  Dinneford  immedi 
ately  went  to  the  prison  and  had  an  interview  with  the 
two  women,  who  could  give  him  no  information  about 
Andy  beyond  what  Mia.  Bray  had  already  communi 
cated  in  her  hurried  talk  with  Edith.  Pinky  could  get  no 
trace  of  him  after  he  had  escaped.  Mr.  Diuneford  did 
not  leave  the  two  women  until  he  had  drawn  from  them 
a  minute  and  circumstantial  account  of  all  t^ey  knew  of 
Edith's  child  from  the  time  it  was  cast  adrift.  When  he 
left  them,  he  had  no  doubt  as  to  its  identity  with  Andy. 
There  was  no  missing  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence. 

The  new  life  that  had  opened  to  little  Andy  since  the 
dreary  night  on  which,  like  a  stray  kitten,  he  had  crept, 
into  Andrew  Hall's  miserable  hovel,  had  been  very  plea 
sant.  To  be  loved  and  caressed  was  a  strange  and  sweet 
experience.  Poor  little  heart!  It  fluttered  in  wild  ter 
ror,  like  a  tiny  bird  in  the  talons  of  a  hawk,  when  Pinky 

29*  341 


342  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Swctt  swooped  down  and  struck  her  foul  talons  into  tht 
frightened  child  and  bore  him  off. 

"  If  you  scream,  I'll  choke  you  to  death !"  she  said, 
stooping  to  his  ear,  as  she  hurried  him  from  the  mission- 
house.  Scared  into  silence,  Andy  did  not  cry  out,  and 
the  arm  that  grasped  and  dragged  him  away  was  so 
strong  that  he  felt  resistance  to  be  hopeless.  Passing 
from  Briar  street,  Pinky  hurried  on  for  a  distance  of  a 
block,  when  she  signaled  a  street-car.  As  she  lifted 
Andy  upon  the  platform,  she  gave  him  another  whispered 
threat : 

"  Mind !  if  you  cry,  I'll  kill  you  !" 

There  were  but  few  persons  in  the  car,  and  Pinky 
carried  the  child  to  the  upper  end  and  sat  him  down  with 
his  face  turned  forward  to  the  window,  so  as  to  keep  it  as 
much  out  of  observation  as  possible.  He  sat  motionless, 
stunned  with  surprise  and  fear.  Pinky  kept  her  eyes 
upon  him.  His  hands  were  laid  across  his  breast  and 
held  against  it  tightly.  They  had  not  gone  far  before 
Pinky  saw  great  tear-drops  falling  upon  the  little  hands. 

"  Stop  crying !"  she  whispered,  close  to  his  ear ;  "  I  won't 
have  it !  You're  not  going  to  be  killed." 

Andy  tried  to  keep  back  the  tears,  but  in  spite  of  all 
he  could  do  they  kept  blinding  his  eyes  and  falling  over 
his  hands. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  little  boy?"  asked  a 
•sympathetic,  motherly  woman  who  had  noticed  the  child's 
distress. 

"  Cross,  that's  all."  Pinky  threw  out  the  sentence  in  » 
snappish,  mind-your-own-business  tone. 


.CAST  ADRIFT.  3^ 

The  motherly  woman,  who  had  leaned  forward,  a  look  of 
kindly  interest  on  her  face,  drew  back,  chilled  by  this  re- 
pulse,  but  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  child,  greatly  to  Pinky'a 
annoyance.  After  riding  for  half  a  mile,  Pinky  got  out 
and  took  another  car.  Andy  was  passive.  He  had  ceased 
crying,  and  was  endeavoring  to  get  back  some  of  the  old 
spirit  of  brave  endurance.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  like 
one  who  ^ad  awakened  from  a  beautiful  dream  in  which 
dear  ideals  had  almost  reached  fruition,  to  the  painful 
facts  of  a  hard  and  suffering  life,  and  was  gathering  up 
his  patience  and  strength  to  meet  them.  He  sat  motion- 
less  by  the  side  of  Pinky,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  his 
chin  on  his  breast  and  his  lips  shut  closely  together. 

Another  ride  of  nearly  half  a  mile,  when  Pinky  left 
the  car  and  struck  away  from  the  common  thoroughfare 
into  a  narrow  alley,  down  which  she  walked  for  a  short  dis 
tance,  and  then  disappeared  in  one  of  the  small  houses. 
No  one  happened  to  observe  her  entrance.  Through  a 
narrow  passage  and  stairway  she  reached  a  second-story 
room.  Taking  a  key  from  her  pocket,  she  unlocked  the 
door  and  went  in.  There  was  a  fire  in  a  small  stove,  and 
the  room  was  comfortable.  Locking  the  door  on  the  in 
side,  she  said  to  Andy,  in  a  voice  changed  and  kinder, 

"  My !  your  hands  are  as  red  as  beets.  Go  up  to  the 
stove  and  warm  yourself." 

Andy  obeyed,  spreading  out  his  little  hands,  and  catch 
ing  the  grateful  warmth,  every  now  and  then  looking  up 
into  Pinky's  face,  and  trying  with  a  shrewder  insight  than 
is  usually  given  to  a  child  of  his  age  to  read  the  charac- 
ler  and  purposes  it  half  con  coaled  and  half  made  known. 


CAST  AJJRlFT. 

"Notv,  Andy.'*  said  Pinky,  in  a  mild  but  very  decided 
way — "  your  name's  Andy  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  the  child,  fixing  his  large,  in 
telligent  eyes  on  her  face. 

"  Well,  Andy,  if  you'll  be  a  good  and  quiet  boy,  you 
needn't  be  afraid  of  anything — you  won't  get  hurt.  But 
if  you  make  a  fuss,  I'll  throw  you  at  once  right  out  of  the 
window." 

Pinky  frowned  and  looked  so  wicked  as  she  uttered  the 
last  sentence  that  Andy  was  frightened.  It  seemed  as  if 
a  devouring  beast  glared  at  him  out  of  her  eyes.  She 
saw  the  effect  of  her  threat,  and  was  satisfied. 

The  short  afternoon  soon  passed  away.  The  girl  did 
not  leave  the  room,  nor  talk  with  the  child  except  in  very 
low  tones,  so  as  not  to  attract  the  attention  of  any  one  in 
the  house.  As  the  day  waned  snow  began  to  fall,  and  by 
the  time  night  set  in  it  was  coming  down  thick  and  fa3t. 
As  soon  as  it  was  fairly  dark,  Pinky  wrapped  a  sha  wl 
about  Andy,  pinning  it  closely,  so  as  to  protect  him  from 
the  cold,  and  quietly  left  the  house.  He  made  no  resist 
ance.  A  car  was  taken,  in  which  they  rode  for  a  long 
distance,  until  they  were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  The 
snow  had  already  fallen  to  a  depth  of  two  or  three  inches, 
and  the  storm  was  increasing.  When  she  left  the  car  in 
that  remote  neighborhood,  not  a  person  was  to  be  seen  on 
the  street.  Catching  Andy  into  her  arms,  Pinky  ran  with 
him  for  the  distance  of  half  a  block,  and  then  turned  into 
a  close  alley  with  small  houses  on  each  side.  At  the  lowei 
end  she  stopped  before  one  of  these  houses,  and  without 
luiocking  pushed  open  the  door. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  346 

"  Whos  that?"  cried  a  voice  from  an  .ipper  room,  the 
ttairway  to  which  led  up  from  the  room  below. 

"  It's  me.  Come  down,  and  be  quiet,"  answered  Pinky, 
UL  a  warning  voice. 

A  woman,  old  and  gray,  with  all  the  signs  of  a  bad 
liie  on  her  wrinkled  face,  came  hastily  down  stairs  and 
confronted  Pinky. 

"What  now?  What's  brought  you  here?"  she  de 
manded,  in  no  friendly  tones. 

"There,  there,  Mother  Peter!  smooth  down  your 
feathers.  I've  got  something  for  you  to  do,  and  it  will 
pay,"  answered  Pinky,  who  had  shut  the  outside  door  and 
slipped  the  bolt. 

At  this,  the  manner  of  Mother  Peter,  as  Pinky  had 
called  her,  softened,  and  she  said, 

"  What's  up  ?  What  deviltry  are  you  after  now,  you 
huzzy?" 

Without  replying  to  this,  Pinky  began  shaking  the 
snow  from  Andy  and  unwinding  the  shawl  with  which 
she  had  bound  him  up.  After  he  was  free  from  his  out 
side  wrappings,  she  said,  looking  toward  the  woman, 

"Now,  isn't  he  a  nice  little  chap?  Did  you  ever  see 
such  eyes?" 

The  worn  face  of  the  woman  softened  as  she  turned 
toward  the  beautiful  child,  but  not  with  pity.  To  that 
feeling  she  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

"  I  want  you  to  keep  him  for  a  few  days,"  said  Pinky, 
speaking  in  the  woman's  ears.  "  I'll  tell  you  more  about 
it  after  he's  in  bed  and  asleep." 

"He'i  to  be  kept  shut  up  out  of  sight,  mind/'  ww 


346  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Pinky 's  injunction,  in  the  conference  that  follow  ed.  "  Not 
a  living  soul  in  the  neighborhood  must  know  he's  in  the 
house,  for  the  police  will  be  sharp  after  him.  I'll  pay 
you  five  dollars  a  week,  and  put  it  down  in  advance. 
Give  him  plenty  to  eat,  and  be  as  good  to  him  as  you 
can,  for  you  see  it's  a  fat  job,  and  I'll  make  it  fatter  for 
you  if  all  comes  out  right." 

The  woman  was  not  slow  to  promise  all  that  Pinky 
demanded.  The  house  in  which  she  lived  had  three 
rooms,  one  below  and  two  smaller  ones  above.  From  the 
room  below  a  stove-pipe  went  up  through  the  floor  into 
a  sheet-iron  drum  in  the  small  back  chamber,  and  kept  it 
partially  heated.  It  was  arranged  that  Andy  should  be 
made  a  close  prisoner  in  this  room,  and  kept  quiet  by 
fear.  It  had  only  one  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
yard,  and  there  was  no  shed  or  porch  over  the  door  lead 
ing  into  the  yard  below  upon  which  he  could  climb  out 
and  make  his  escape.  In  order  to  have  things  wholly 
secure  the  two  women,  after  Andy  was  asleep,  pasted 
paper  over  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  lower  sash,  so  that 
no  one  could  see  his  face  at  the  window,  and  fastened  the 
sash  down  by  putting  a  nail  into  a  gimlet-hole  at  the  top. 
"  I  guess  that  will  fix  him,"  said  Pinky,  in  a  tone  of 
satisfaction.  "  All  you've  got  to  do  now  is  to  see  that  he 
doesn't  make  a  noise." 

On  the  next  morning  Andy  was  awake  by  day-dawn. 
At  first  he  did  not  know  where  he  was,  but  he  kept  very 
still,  looking  around  the  small  room  and  trying  to  make 
out  what  it  all  meant.  Soon  it  came  to  him,  and  a  vague 
terror  filled  his  heart.  By  his  side  lay  the  woman  into 


CAST  ADRIFT.  347 

whose  hands  Pinky  had  given  him.  She  was  fast  asleep, 
and  her  face,  as  he  gazed  in  fear  upon  it,  was  even  more 
repulsive  than  it  had  looked  on  the  night  before.  His 
first  impulse,  after  comprehending  his  situation,  was  to 
escape  if  possible.  Softly  and  silently  he  crept  out  of 
bed,  and  made  his  way  to  the  door.  It  was  fastened. 
He  drew  the  bolt  back  when  it  struck  the  guard  with  a 
sharp  click.  In  an  instant  the  old  woman  was  sitting 
up  in  bed  and  glaring  at  him. 

'•  You  imp  of  Satan !"  she  cried,  springing  after  him 
with  a  singular  agility  for  one  of  her  age,  and  catching 
him  by  the  arm  with  a  vice-like  grip  that  bruised  the 
tender  flesh  and  left  it  marked  for  weeks,  drew  him 
back  from  the  door  and  flung  him  upon  the  bed. 

"  Stay  there  till  I  tell  you  to  get  up,"  she  added,  with 
a  cruel  threat  in  her  voice.  "  And  mind  you,  there's  to 
be  no  fooling  with  me." 

The  frightened  child  crept  under  the  bed-clothes,  and 
hid  his  face  beneath  them.  Mother  Peter  did  not  lie 
down  again,  but  commenced  dressing  herself,  muttering 
and  grumbling  as  she  did  so. 

"  Keep  where  you  are  till  I  come  back,"  she  said  to 
Andy,  with  the  same  cruel  threat  in  her  voice.  Going 
out,  she  bolted  the  door  on  the  other  side.  It  was  nearly 
half  an  hour  before  the  woman  returned,  bringing  a 
plate  containing  two  or  three  slices  of  bread  and  butter 
and  a  cup  of  milk. 

"Now  get  up  and  dress  yourself,"  was  her  sharply- 
spoken  salutation  to  Andy  as  she  came  into  the  room. 
"And  you're  to  be  just  as  still  as  a  mouse,  mind.  There'i 


348  CAST  ADRIFT. 

your  breakfast."  She  set  the  plate  on  a  table  ar<i  *  oal 
out,  bolting,  as  before,  the  door  on  the  other  side.  Andy 
did  not  see  her  again  for  over  an  hour.  Left  entirely 
alone  in  his  prison,  his  restless  spirit  chafed  for  freedom 
He  moved  about  the  apartment,  examining  everything  it 
contained  with  the  closest  scrutiny,  yet  without  making 
any  noise,  for  the  woman's  threat,  accompanied  as  it  had 
been  with  such  a  wicked  look,  was  not  forgotten.  He  had 
seen  in  that  look  a  cruel  spirit  of  which  he  was  afraid . 
Two  or  three  times  he  thought  he  heard  a  step  and  a 
movement  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  and  waited,  almost 
holding  his  breath,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  door,  expect 
ing  every  moment  to  see  the  scowling  face  of  his  jailer 
But  no  hand  touched  the  door. 

Tired  at  last  with  everything  in  the  room,  he  went  to 
the  window  and  sought  to  look  out,  as  he  had  already 
done  many  times.  He  could  not  understand  why  this 
window  was  so  different  from  any  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  puzzled  over  it  in  his  weak,  childish  way.  As  he 
moved  from  pane  to  pane,  trying  to  see  through,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  something  outside,  but  it  was  gone  in  a  mo 
ment.  He  stepped  back,  then  came  up  quickly  to  the 
glass,  all  the  dull  quietude  of  manner  leaving  him.  As 
he  did  so  a  glimpse  of  the  outside  world  came  again,  and 
now  he  saw  a  little  hole  in  the  p  iper  not  larger  than  a 
pin's  head.  To  scrape  at  this  was  a  simple  instinct.  In 
a  moment  he  saw  it  enlarging,  as  the  paper  peeled  off 
from  the  glass.  Scraping  away  with  his  finger-nail,  the 
glass  was  soon  cleared  of  paper  for  the  space  of  an  inch 
»Q  diameter,  and  through  this  opening  he  stood  gazing 


CAST  ADRIFT.  349 

j-ut  upon  the  yaids  below,  and  the  houses  that  came  up 
to  them  from  a  neighboring  street.  There  was  a  woman 
in  one  of  these  yards,  and  she  looked  up  toward  the  win 
dow  where  Andy  stood,  curiously. 

"  You  imp  of  Satan  !"  were  the  terrible  words  that  fell 
upon  his  ears  at  this  juncture,  and  he  felt  himself  caught 
up  as  by  a  vultuie.  He  knew  the  cruel  voice  and  the 
grip  of  the  cruel  hands  that  had  already  left  their  marks 
in  his  tender  flesh.  Mother  Peter,  her  face  red  with 
passion  and  her  eyes  glowing  like  coals  of  fire,  held  him 
high  in  the  air,  and  shook  him  with  savage  violence. 
She  did  not  strike,  but  continued  shaking  him  until  the 
sudden  heat  of  her  passion  had  a  little  cooled. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  meddle  with  anything  in  this 
room  ?"  and  with  another  bruising  grip  of  Andy's  arms, 
she  threw  him  roughly  upon  the  floor. 

The  little  hole  in  the  paper  was  then  repaired  by 
pasting  another  piece  of  paper  over  it,  after  which  Aiidy 
was  left  alone,  but  with  a  threat  from  Mother  Peter  tha'. 
if  he  touched  the  window  again  she  would  beat  the  life 
out  of  him.  She  had  no  more  trouble  with  him  that  day. 
Every  half  hour  or  so  she  would  come  up  stairs  noise 
lessly  and  listen  at  the  door,  or  break  in  upon  the  child 
suddenly  and  without  warning.  But  she  did  not  find 
him  again  at  the  window.  The  restlessness  at  first  ex 
hibited  had  died  out,  and  he  sat  or  lay  upon  the  floor  in 
a  kind  of  dull,  despairing  stupor.  So  that  day  passed. 

On  the  second  day  of  Andy's  imprisonment  he  dis 
tinctly  heard  the  old  woman  go  out  at  the  street  door  and 
lock  it  after  her.  He  listened  for  a  long  time,  but  could 

80 


350  CAST  ADRIFT. 

hear  no  sound  in  the  house.  A  feeling  of  rel/ef  and  i 
sense  of  safety  came  over  him.  He  had  not  been  so  long 
in  his  prison  alone  without  the  minutest  examination  of 
every  part,  and  it  had  not  escaped  his  notice  that  the 
panes  of  glass  in  the  upper  sash  of  the  window  were  not 
covered  with  paper,  as  were  those  below.  But  for  the  fear 
of  one  cf  Mother  Peter's  noiseless  pouncings  in  upon  him, 
he  would  long  since  have  climbed  upon  the  sill  and  taken 
a  look  through  the  upper  sash.  He  waited  now  for  full 
half  an  hour  to  be  sure  that  his  jailer  had  left  the  house, 
and  then,  climbing  to  the  window-sill  with  the  agility  of 
a  squirrel,  held  on  to  the  edge  of  the  lower  sash  and 
looked  out  through  the  clear  glass  above.  Dreary  and 
unsightly  as  was  all  that  lay  under  his  gaze,  it  was  beau 
tiful  in  the  eyes  of  the  child.  His  little  heart  swelled 
and  glowed ;  he  longed,  as  a  prisoner,  for  freedom.  As 
he  stood  there  he  saw  that  a  nail  held  down  the  lower 
Bash,  which  he  had  so  often  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  lift. 
Putting  his  finger  on  this  nail,  he  felt  it  move.  It  had 
been  placed  loosely  in  a  gimlet-hole,  and  could  be  drawn 
out  easily.  For  a  little  while  he  stood  there,  taking  out 
and  putting  in  the  nail.  While  doing  this  he  thought  he 
heard  a  sound  below,  and  instantly  dropped  noiselessly 
from  the  window.  He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  the 
door  of  his  room  opened  and  Mother  Peter  came  in. 
She  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  then  retired  without 
speaking. 

All  the  next  day  Andy  listened  after  Mother  Peter, 
waiting  to  hear  her  go  out.  But  she  did  not  leave  th« 
.louse  until  after  he  was  asleep  in  the  svening. 


THE  ESCAPE. 


See  page  351. 


CAST  ADRIFT. 

On  the  next  day,  after  waiting  until  almost  noon,  the 
child's  impatience  of  confinement  grew  so  strong  that  he 
rould  no  longer  defer  his  meditated  escape  from  the  win 
dow,  for  ever  since  he  had  looked  over  the  sash  and  dis 
covered  how  it  was  fastened  down,  his  mind  had  beei 
running  on  this  thing.      He  had   noticed  that  Mothe, 
Peter's  visits  to  his  room  were  made  after  about  equal  in 
tervals  of  time,  and  that  after  she  gave  him  his  dinner 
she  did  not  come  up  stairs  again  for  at  least  an  hour. 
This  had  been  brought,  and  he  was  again  alone. 

For  nearly  five  minutes  after  the  woman  went  out,  he 
eat  by  the  untasted  food,  his  head  bent  toward  the  door, 
listening.  Then  he  got  up  quietly,  climbed  upon  the 
window-sill  and  pulled  the  nail  out.  Dropping  back 
upon  the  floor  noiselessly,  he  pushed  his  hands  upward 
against  the  sash,  and  it  rose  easily.  Like  an  animal  held 
in  unwilLng  confinement,  he  did  not  stop  to  think  of  any 
danger  that  might  lie  in  the  way  of  escape  when  oppor 
tunity  for  escape  offered.  The  fear  behind  was  worse 
than  any  imagined  fear  that  could  lie  beyond.  Pushing 
up  the  sash,  Andy,  without  looking  down  from  the  win 
dow,  threw  himself  across  the  sill  and  dropped  his  body 
over,  supporting  himself  with  his  hands  on  the  snow-en 
trusted  ledge  for  a  moment,  and  then  letting  himself  fall 
to  the  ground,  a  distance  of  nearly  ten  feet.  He  felt  his 
breath  go  as  he  swept  through  the  air,  and  lost  his  senses 
for  an  instant  or  two. 

Stunned  by  the  fall,  he  did  not  rise  for  several  minutes. 
Then  he  got  up  with  a  slow,  heavy  motion  and  looked 
about  him  anxiously.  He  was  in  a  yard  from  which 


352  CAST  ADRIFT. 

there  was  no  egress  except  by  way  of  the  house.  It  wa* 
oitter  cold,  and  he  had  on  nothing  hut  the  clothing  worn 
in  the  room  from  which  he  had  just  escaped.  His  head 
was  bare. 

The  dread  of  being  found  here  by  Mother  Peter  soon 
jfted  him  above  physical  impediment  or  suffering. 
Through  a  hole  in  the  fence  he  saw  an  alley- way ;  and  by 
the  aid  of  an  old  barrel  that  stood  in  the  yard,  he  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  fence  and  let  himself  down  on  the  other 
side,  falling  a  few  feet.  A  sharp  pain  was  felt  in  one  of  his 
ankles  as  his  feet  touched  the  ground.  He  had  sprained 
it  in  his  leap  from  the  window,  and  now  felt  the  first  pangs 
attendant  on  the  injury. 

Limping  along,  he  followed  the  narrow  alley-way,  and 
in  a  little  while  came  out  upon  a  street  some  distance  from 
the  one  in  which  Mother  Peter  lived.  There  were  very 
few  people  abroad,  and  no  one  noticed  or  spoke  to  him 
as  he  went  creeping  along,  every  step  sending  a  pain  from 
the  hurt  ankle  to  his  heart.  Faint  with  suffering  and 
chilled  to  numbness,  Andy  stumbled  and  fell  as  he  tried, 
in  crossing  a  street,  to  escape  from  a  sleigh  that  turned  a 
corner  suddenly.  It  was  too  late  for  the  driver  to  rein 
up  his  horse.  One  foot  struck  the  child,  throwing  him 
out  of  the  track  of  the  sleigh.  He  was  insensible  when 
taken  up,  bleeding  and  apparently  dead.  A  few  people 
came  out  of  the  small  houses  in  the  neighborhood,  at 
tracted  by  the  accident,  but  no  one  knew  the  child  or 
offered  to  take  him  in. 

There  were  two  ladies  in  the  sleigh,  and  both  were 
greatly  pained  and  troubled.  After  a  hurried  consul ta- 


CAST  ADRIFT.  353 

tion,one  of  them  reached  out  her  hands  for  the  child,  aud 
as  she  received  and  covered  him  with  the  buffalo-robe 
gaid  something  to  the  driver,  who  turned  his  horse's  head 
and  drove  off  at  a  rapid  speed. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

TjlVERY  home  for  friendless  children,  every  sin  01 
-*-J  poverty-blighted  ward  and  almost  every  hovel,  gar 
ret  and  cellar  where  evil  and  squalor  shrunk  from  obser 
vation  were  searched  for  the  missing  child,  but  in  vain. 
No  trace  of  him  could  be  found.  The  agony  of  suspense 
into  which  Edith's  mind  was  brought  was  beginning  to 
threaten  her  reason.  It  was  only  by  the  strongest  effort 
at  self-compulsion  that  she  could  keep  herself  to  duty 
among  the  poor  and  suffering,  and  well  for  her  it  was 
that  she  did  not  fail  here;  it  was  all  that  held  her  to 
safe  mooring. 

One  day,  as  she  was  on  her  way  home  from  some  visit 
of  mercy,  a  lady  who  was  passing  in  a  carriage  called  to 
her  from  the  window,  at  the  same  time  ordering  her  driver 
to  stop.  The  carriage  drew  up  to  the  sidewalk. 

"  Come,  get  in,"  said  the  lady  as  she  pushed  open  the 
carriage  door.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  this  very  mo 
ment,  and  want  to  have  some  talk  about  our  children's 
hospital.  We  must  have-  you  on  our  ladies'  visiting  com 
mittee." 

Edith  shook  her  head,  -saying,  "It  won't  be  possible, 
Mrs.  Morton.  I  am  overtaxed  now,  and  must  lessen,  in- 
stead  of  increasing,  my  work." 

354 


CAST  ADRIFT.  356 

'*  Never  mind  about  that  now.  Get  in.  I  want  to  have 
some  talk  with  you." 

Edith,  who  knew  the  lady  intimately,  stepped  into  the 
carriage  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  ever  been  to  our  hospital," 
said  the  lady  as  the  carriage  rolled  on.  "  I'm  going  there 
now,  and  want  to  show  you  how  admirably  everything  ia 
conducted,  and  what  a  blessing  it  is  to  poor  suffering  chil 
dren." 

"  It  hurts  me  so  to  witness  suffering  in  little  children," 
returned  Edith,  "  that  it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  it 
much  longer.  I  see  so  much  of  it." 

"  The  pain  is  not  felt  as  deeply  when  we  are  trying  to 
relieve  that  suffering,"  answered  her  friend.  "  I  have 
come  away  from  the  hospital  many  times  after  spending 
an  hour  or  two  among  the  beds,  reading  and  talking  to 
the.  children,  with  an  inward  peace  in  my  soul  too  deep 
for  expression.  I  think  that  Christ  draws  very  near  to 
us  while  we  are  trying  to  do  the  work  that  he  did  when 
he  took  upon  himself  our  nature  in  the  world  and  stood 
face  to  face  visibly  with  men — nearer  to  us,  it  may  be, 
than  at  any  other  time ;  and  in  his  presence  there  \s 
peace — peace  that  passeth  understanding." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while,  Edith  not  replying. 

"  We  have  now,"  resumed  the  lady,  "  nearly  forty  chil 
dren  under  treatment — poor  little  things  who,  but  for 
this  charity,  would  have  no  tender  care  or  intelligent 
ministration.  Most  of  them  would  be  lying  in  garrets  01 
miserable  little  rooms,  dirty  and  neglected,  disease  eating 
'mt  their  lives,  and  pain  that  medical  skill  now  relieves. 


366  CAST  ADRIFT. 

racking  their  poor  worn  bodies.  I  sat  by  the  bed  of  a 
little  girl  yesterday  whn  has  been  in  the  hospital  over 
eix  months.  She  has  hip  disease.  When  she  was  brought 
here  from  one  of  the  vilest  places  in  the  city,  taken  away 
from  a  drunken  mother,  she  was  the  saddest-looking 
child  I  ever  saw.  Dirty,  emaciated,  covered  with  vermin 
and  pitiable  to  behold,  I  could  hardly  help  crying  when 
I  saw  her  brought  in.  Now,  though  still  unable  to  leave 
her  bed,  she  has  as  bright  and  happy  a  face  as  you  ever 
saw.  The  care  and  tenderness  received  since  she  came  to 
us  have  awakened  a  new  life  in  her  soul,  and  she  exhibits 
a  sweetness  of  temper  beautiful  to  see.  After  I  had  read 
a  little  story  for  her  yesterday,  she  put  her  arms  about 
my  neck  and  kissed  me,  saying,  in  her  frank,  impulsive 
way,  '  Oh,  Mrs.  Morton,  I  do  love  you  so !'  I  had  a  great 
reward.  Never  do  I  spend  an  hour  among  these  chil 
dren  without  thanking  God  that  he  put  it  into  the  hearts 
of  a  few  men  and  women  who  could  be  touched  with  the 
sufferings  of  children  to  establish  and  sustain  so  good  an 
institution." 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  the  driver  swung  open  the 
door.  They  were  at  the  children's  hospital.  Entering  a 
spacious  hall,  the  two  ladies  ascended  to  the  second  story, 
where  the  wards  were  located.  There  were  two  of  these 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  hall,  one  for  boys  and  one  for 
girls.  Edith  felt  a  heavy  pressure  Oil  her  bosom  as  they 
passed  into  the  girls'  ward.  She  was  coming  into  the  pres 
ence  of  disease  and  pain,  of  suffering  and  weariness,  in 
the  persons  of  little  children. 

There  were  twenty  beds  in  the  room.     Everything  wa? 


CAST  ADRIFT.  357 

fruitlessly  clean,  and  the  air  fresh  and  pure.  On  most 
)f  these  beds  lay,  or  sat  up,  supported  by  pillows,  sick  01 
crippled  children  from  two  years  of  age  up  to  fifteen  01 
sixteen,  while  a  few  were  playing  about  the  room.  Edith 
caught  her  breath  and  choked  back  a  sob  that  came 
swiftly  to  her  throat  as  she  stood  a  few  steps  within  the 
door  and  read  in  a  few  quick  glances  that  passed  from 
face  to  face  the  sorrowful  records  that  pain  had  written 
upon  them. 

"  Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Morton !"  cried  a  glad  voice,  and 
Edith  saw  a  girl  who  was  sitting  up  in  one  of  the  beds 
•Map  her  hands  joyfully. 

"  That's  the  little  one  I  was  telling  you  about,"  saia 
the  lady,  and  she  crossed  to  the  bed,  Edith  following 
The  ch;ld  reached  up  her  arms  and  put  them  about  Mrs. 
Morton's  neck,  kissing  her  as  she  did  so. 

It  took  Edith  some  time  to  'adjust  herself  to  the  scene 
before  her.  Mrs.  Morton  knew  all  the  children,  and  had 
a  word  of  cheer  or  sympathy  for  most  of  them  as  she 
passed  from  bed  to  bed  through  the  ward.  Gradually 
the  first  painful  impressions  wore  off,  and  Edith  felt  her 
self  drawn  to  the  little  patients,  and  before  five  minutes 
had  passed  her  heart  was  full  of  a  strong  desire  to  do 
whatever  lay  in  her  power  to  help  and  comfort  them. 
After  spending  half  an  hour  with  the  girls,  during  which 
time  Edith  talked  and  read  to  a  number  of  them,  Mrs. 
Morton  said, 

"  Now  let  us  go  into  the  boys'  ward." 

They  crossed  the  hall  together,  and  entered  the  room 
on  the  other  side.  Here,  as  in  the  opposite  ward,  Mrs. 


858  CAST  ADRIFT. 

Morton  was  recognized  as  a  welcome  visitor.  Every  fact 
that  happened  to  be  turned  to  the  door  brightened  at  her 
entrance. 

"  There's  a  dear  child  in  this  ward,"  said  Mrs.  Morton 
as  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  door  looking  about  the 
room.  "  He  was  picked  up  in  the  street  about  a  week 
ago,  hurt  by  a  passing  vehicle,  and  brought  here.  We 
have  not  been  able  to  learn  anything  about  him." 

Edith's  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap,  but  she  held  it 
down  with  all  the  self-control  she  could  assume,  trying  to 
be  calm. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  so  altered  from 
its  natural  tone  that  Mrs.  Morton  turned  and  looked  at 
her  in  surprise. 

"Over  in  that  corner,"  she  answered,  pointing  down 
t-he  room. 

Edith  started  forward,  Mrs.  Morton  at  her  side. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  the  latter,  pausing  at  a  bed  on  which 
i  child  with  fair  face,  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  was 
lying.  A  single  glance  sent  the  blood  back  to  Edith's 
heart.  A  faintness  came  over  her;  everything  grew 
dark.  She  sat  down  to  keep  from  falling. 

As  quickly  as  possible  and  by  another  strong  effort  of 
will  she  rallied  herself. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  faint  undertone  in  which  was  no 
apparent  interest,  "  he  is  a  dear  little  fellow." 

As  she  spoke  she  laid  her  hand  softly  on  the  child's 
head,  but  not  in  a  way  to  bring  any  response.  He  looked 
\i  her  curiously,  and  seemed  half  afraid. 

Meanwhile,  a  child  occupying  a  bed  only  a  few  feet 


CAST  ADRIFT.  36* 

aff  had  started  up  quickly  on  seeing  Edith,  aid  now  sat 
with  his  large  brown  eyes  fixed  eagerly  upon  her,  hia 
lips  apart  and  his  hands  extended.  But  Edith  did  not 
notice  him.  Presently  she  got  up  from  beside  the  bed 
and  was  turning  away  when  the  other  child,  with  a  kind 
of  despairing  look  in  his  face,  cried  out, 

•'  Lady,  lady !  oh,  lady !" 

The  voice  reached  Edith's  ears.  She  turned  and  saw 
the  face  of  Andy.  Swift  as  a  flash  she  was  upon  him, 
gathering  him  in  her  arms  and  crying  out,  in  a  wild  pas 
sion  of  joy  that  could  not  be  repressed, 

"  Oh,  my  baby !  my  baby !  my  boy !  my  boy !  Bless 
God  !  thank  God !  oh,  my  baby !" 

Startled  by  this  sudden  outcry,  the  resident  physician 
and  two  nurses  who  were  in  the  ward  hurried  down  the 
room  to  see  what  it  meant.  Edith  had  the  child  hugged 
tightly  to  her  bosom,  and  resisted  all  their  efforts  to 
remove  him. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  will  do  him 
some  harm  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"Hurt  my  baby?  Oh  no,  no!"  she  answered,  relax 
ing  her  hold  and  gazing  down  upon  Andy  as  she  let  him 
fall  away  from  her  bosom.  Then  lifting  her  eyes  to  the 
physician,  her  face  so  flooded  with  love  and  inexpressible 
joy  that  it  seemed  like  some  heavenly  transfiguration,  she 
murmured,  in  a  low  voice  full  of  the  deepest  tenderness, 

"  Oh  no.     I  will  not  do  my  baby  any  harm." 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  recovering 
from  the  shock  of  her  first  surprise  and  fearing  that 
Edith  had  suddenly  lost  her  mind,  "you  cannot  mean 


360  CAST  ADRIFT. 

what  you  say ;"  and  she  reached  down  for  the  child  and 
made  a  movement  as  if  she  were  going  to  lift  him  away 
from  her  arms. 

A  look  of  angry  resistance  swept  across  Edith's  pale 
face.  There  was  a  flash  of  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  no !  You  must  not  touch  him,"  she  exclaimed ; 
"  J  will  die  before  giving  him  up.  My  baby !" 

And  now,  breaking  down  from  her  intense  excitement, 
she  bent  over  the  child  again,  weeping  and  sobbing. 
Waiting  until  this  paroxysm  had  expended  itself,  Mrs. 
Morton,  who  had  not  failed  to  notice  that  Andy  nevei 
turned  his  eyes  for  an  instant  away  from  Edith,  nor 
resisted  her  strained  clasp  or  wild  caresses,  but  lay  pas 
sive  against  her  with  a  look  of  rest  and  peace  in  his 
face,  said, 

"  How  shall  we  know  that  he  is  your  baby  ?" 

At  this  Edith  drew  herself  up,  the  light  on  her  counte 
nance  fading  out.  Then  catching  at  the  child's  arm,  she 
pulled  the  loose  sleeve  that  covered  it  above  the  elbow 
with  hands  that  shook  like  aspens.  Another  cry  of  joy 
broke  from  her  as  she  saw  a  small  red  mark  standing  out 
clear  from  the  snowy  skin.  She  kissed  it  over  and  over 
again,  sobbing, 

"My  baby!  Yes,  thank  God!  my  own  long-lost 
baby!" 

And  still  the  child  showed  no  excitement,  but  lay  very 
quiet,  looking  at  Edith  whenever  he  could  see  her  counte 
nance,  the  peace  and  rest  on  his  face  as  unchanging  as  if 
tt  were  not  really  a  living  and  mobile  face,  but  one  cut 
mto  this  expression  by  the  hands  of  an  artist 


FOUND  AT  LAST. 


See  page  SCO. 


CAST  ADRIFT.  361 

"  How  shall  you  know  ?"  asked  Edith,  now  remember 
ing  the  question  of  Mrs.  Morton.  And  she  drew  up  hei 
own  sleeve  and  showed  on  one  of  her  arms  a  mark  as 
clearly  defined  and  bright  as  that  on  the  child's  arm. 

No  one  sought  to  hinder  Edith  as  she  rose  to  her  feet 
holding  Andy,  after  she  had  wrapped  the  bed-clothes 
about  him. 

"  Come !"  she  spoke  to  her  friend,  and  moved  away  with 
her  precious  burden. 

"  You  must  go  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Morton  to  the  phy 
sician. 

They  followed  as  Edith  hurried  down  stairs,  and  enter 
ing  the  carriage  after  her,  were  driven  away  from  the 
hospital, 
SI 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ABOUT  the  same  hour  that  Edith  entered  the  boys 
ward  of  the  children's  hospital,  Mr.  Dinneford  met 
Granger  face  to  face  in  the  street.      The  latter  tried  to 
pass  him,  but  Mr.  Dinneford  stopped,  and   taking  his 
almost  reluctant  hand,  said,  as  he  grasped  it  tightly, 

"  George  Granger !"  in  a  voice  that  had  in  it  a  kind  of 
helpless  cry. 

The  young  man  did  not  answer,  but  stood  looking  at 
him  in  a  surprised,  uncertain  way. 

"  George,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  his  utterance  broken, 
"  we  want  you !" 

"  For  what  ?"  asked  Granger,  whose  hand  still  lay  in 
that  of  Mr.  Dinneford.  He  had  tried  to  withdraw  it  at 
first,  but  now  let  it  remain. 

"  To  help  us  find  your  child." 

"  My  child !     What  of  my  child  ?" 

"  Your  child  and  Edith's,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford.  "  Come ! ' 
and  he  drew  his  arm  within  that  of  Granger,  the  two  men 
moving  away  together.  "  It  has  been  lost  since  the  day 
of  its  birth — cast  adrift  through  the  same  malign  in  flu- 
ence  that  cursed  your  life  and  Edith's.  We  are  on  its 
track,  but  baffled  day  by  day.  Oh,  George,  we  want  you, 
frightfully  wronged  as  you  have  been  at  our  hands — not 
Edith's.  Oh  no,  George!  Edith's  heart  has  never  turned 

362 


CAST  ADRIFT.  363 

from  you  for  an  instant,  never  doubted  you,  though  in  her 
weakness  and  despair  she  was  driven  to  sign  that  fatal 
application  for  a  divorce.  If  it  were  not  for  the  fear  of 
a  scornful  rejection,  she  would  be  reaching  out  her  hands 
to  you  now  and  begging  for  the  old  sweet  love,  but  such 
a  rejection  would  kill  her,  and  she  dare  not  brave  the 
risk." 

Mr.  Dinneford  felt  the  young  man's  arm  begin  to  trem 
ble  violently. 

"  We  want  you,  George,"  he  pursued.  "  Edith's  heart 
is  calling  out  for  you,  that  she  may  lean  it  upon  your 
heart,  so  that  it  break  not  in  this  great  trial  and  suspen&e. 
Your  lost  baby  is  calling  for  you  out  of  some  garret  or 
cellar  or  hovel  where  it  lies  concealed.  Come,  my  son. 
The  gulf  that  lies  between  the  dreadful  past  and  the 
blessed  future  can  be  leaped  at  a  single  bound  if  you 
choose  to  make  it.  We  want  you — Edith  and  I  and 
your  baby  want  you." 

Mr.  Dinneford,  in  his  great  excitement,  was  hurrying 
the  young  man  along  at  a  rapid  speed,  holding  on  to  his 
arm  at  the  same  time,  as  if  afraid  he  would  pull  it  away 
and  escape. 

Granger  made  no  response,  but  moved  along  passively, 
taking  in  every  word  that  was  said.  A  great  light 
seemed  to  break  upon  his  soul,  a  great  mountain  to  be 
lifted  off.  He  did  not  pause  at  the  door  from  which, 
when  he  last  stood  there,  he  had  been  so  cruelly  rejected, 
hut  went  in,  almost  holding  his  breath,  bewildered,  uncer 
tain,  but  half  realizing  the  truth  of  what  was  transpiring, 
like  one  in  a  dream. 


364  CAST  ADRIFT. 

"  Wail  here,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  and  he  left  him  IB 
the  parlor  and  ran  up  stairs  to  find  Edith. 

George  Granger  had  scarcely  time  to  recognize  th« 
objects  around  him,  when  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  door, 
and  in  a  moment  afterward  the  bell  rang  violently. 

The  image  that  next  met  his  eyes  was  that  of  Edith 
standing  in  the  parlor  door  with  a  child  all  bundled  up 
in  bed-clothing  held  closely  in  her  arms.  Her  face  was 
trembling  with  excitement.  He  started  forward  on  see 
ing  her  with  an  impulse  of  love  and  joy  that  he  could 
not  restrain.  She  saw  him,  and  reading  his  soul  in  his 
eyes,  moved  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  George,  and  you  too !"  she  exclaimed.  "  My  baby 
and  my  husband,  all  at  once !  It  is  too  much.  I  cannof 
bear  it  all !" 

Granger  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  she  threw  herself 
upon  him  and  laid  the  child  against  his  breast. 

"  Yours  and  mine,"  she  sobbed.  "  Yours  and  mine, 
George  I"  and  she  put  up  her  face  to  his.  Could  he  do 
less  than  cover  it  with  kisses? 

A  few  hours  later,  and  a  small  group  of  very  near 
friends  witnessed  a  different  scene  from  this.  Not  another 
tragedy,  as  might  well  be  feared,  under  the  swift  reac 
tions  that  came  upon  Edith.  No,  no !  She  did  not  die 
from  excess  of  joy,  but  was  filled  with  new  life  and 
strength.  Two  hands  broken  asunder  so  violently  a  few 
years  ago  were  now  clasped  again,  and  the  minister  of 
God  as  he  laid  them  together  pronounced  in  trembling 
xmes  the  marriage  benediction. 

This  was  the  scene,  and  here  we  drop  the  curtain. 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


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Arthur,  T.S. 
Cast  adrift 


PS1039 

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C3 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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